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THE 



RIFLE, AXE, AND SADDLE-BAGS. 






'h^^id^^^x^ 



THE 



ilFLE, AIE, AND SADDLE-BAGS, 



OTHER LECTURES. 



WILLIAM HENRY MILBURN. 



WITH INTRODUCTION BY REY. J. MoCLINTOCK, D.D. 



portrait of % 9uttor on 5t£cl. 




NEW YORK : v 
DERBY & JACKSON, 119 NASSAU STREET. 

CINCINNATI :—H. W. DERBY Sc CO. 

1857. 






Entsbed according to Act of Congress, in the year 1866, by 

DERBY & JACKSON, 

I the Clork's Office ol the District Court of the United States, for the Southern District of New York. 



W, H. TiMBoN, Stereotjper. Gsobgk Russell & Co., Prin i 



^0 

GEOROE W. WILLIAMS, ESQ. 

OP CHARLESTON, S. C, 

A FRIEND, 

WHOSS THOUGHTFCTL KINDNlilSS AND BROTHERLY AFFECTION 

HAVB BKKN TO MB 

A JOY AND BLESSING, 

tS,lis Tolumt is 3n8txlht^. 



CONTENTS 



THE SYMBOLS OF EARLY WESTERN CHARACTER AND CIVILIZATION. 

PAOB 

First Invaders, 27 

The Untamed Wilderness, 29 

Daniel Boone, 81 



THE RIFLE. 

White and McClelland, 85 

The Female Captive, 87 

The Mysterious Shot, 39 

A Narrow Escape, ......... 41 

The Keal Young America, 43 



A Backwoods Marriage, 47 

The Wedding Dinner, 49 

A Dance, 61 

Homes in the Wilderness, 63 

Justice in the Backwoods, 65 



THE SADDLE-BAGS. 

Preachers in the Wilderness, ....... 57 

WiUiam Burke, 59 

Good Looks Heretical, 61 



Vni CONTENTS. 

PA6B 

Modesty and Courage, 63 

Accommodations for Man and Beast, . . , . . .65 

The Preacher's Dormitory, 67 

Henry Beidelman Bascom, 69 

Value of a Song, 71 

*' Old Jimmy's" Reproofs, 73 

Judge "White Surprised, . , , 75 

The Work of the Clergy, .... ... 77 

The Vision of John Fitch, 79 

The Pioneer's Work, 81 

SONGS IN THE NIGHT ; OR, THE TRIUMPHS OP GENIUS OYER BLINDNESS. 

Beauty and Effects of Light, 87 

The Eye, 89 

Eminent Blind Men, . . 91 

Nicholas Saunderson, 93 

His Remarkable Sense of Hearing, 95 

Francis Huber, 97 

His Investigation in Bees, 99 

Augustin Thierry, 101 

Madame Paradisi, 103 

A Triumph of Resolution, 105 

Mr. Prescott, 107 

Francis Parkman, 109 

John Milton, . .111 

His Early Studies, 113 

His Controversial Career, 115 

Premonitions of Blindness, 117 

Sonnets on his Blindness, -. .119 

His Immortal Fame, 121 

Blindness an Impediment to Oratory, 123 

Sympathy Necessary to the Speaker, 125 

The other Senses Quickened, 127 

The BUnd Man's Need is his Gain, 129 

The BUnd Man is an Optimist 131 

"I am Old and BUnd." ........ 133 

AN hour's talk about WOMAN. 

Their Various Expounders, 139 

Old Influences not yet Removed, 141 



CONTENTS. IX 

PAQK 

♦' The Bridge of Sighs," 143 

True Power lies not in the Pliysical, 117 

The Moral Greater than the Intellectual, 149 

John Howard the Philanthropist, . . . . . .151 

Sell-education, ir/.i 

Woman's Sphere, 155 

Ancient and Modern Women, 157 

Woman's Capabilities Examined, 159 

Education Ceases with School, 161 

FrivoHty a Prevailing Evil, 163 

A Strict Regard of Time Required, . . , . . .165 
Earnestness of Female Authors, . ," . , . . 167 

Surfacism, 169 

Women the Best Literary Instructors, . , , . "171 

A Fast Age, 173 

Woman's Responsibility, 175 

Asceticism to be Avoided, 177 

Pharisaism Replaces True Religion, 179 

The Power of Sympathy, . . 181 

Conversation, 188 

The Importance of Conversation, - . 185 

Educational Suggestions, 187 

Our Domestic Life, 189 

An Illustration, 191 

Class Separatism, 193 

Evil Influences, 195 

Woman the True Reformer, 197 

Domestic Solicitudes, 199 

Her Moral Requirements, 201 

Maternal Teachings, 203 

Practical Counsel, 206 

Educational Suggestions, 207 

Future Hopes, 209 

FRENCH CHIVALRY IN THE SOUTHWEST. 

Early Charters of Trade, 216 

Early Discoveries in the Southwest, 217 

Exploration of the Mississippi, .219 

Discouragements of the Colonists, 221 

The French Charter Renounced, 223 



* 



X CONTENTS. 

PAQF 

The Assiento Contract, 225 

Gold Unsuccessfully Sought, .227 

Foundation of New Orleans, 229 

Development of Internal Resources, 231 

Collisions between the French and Spanish, .... 233 

Gradual Growth of the Colony, 235 

Sufferings of the Colonists, • . 237 

Collisions with the Indians, 239 

French Outrages, 241 

Massacre at Fort Rosalie, 243 

Extermination of the Garrison, 245 

Retaliation by the French, . . . . ^ . . . . 247 

Attack upon the Chickasaws, 249 

Growth of the Louisiana Province, 253 

Destruction of a French Colony, 255 

Cession of Territory to the British, 257 

Cession of Western Louisiana to Spain, 259 

Oppression of the Spanish Governor, 261 

Expansion of the Anglo-American Element, .... 263 

Purchase of the Louisiana Territory, 265 

Historical Traditions, 267 

Incidents of Forest Life, .... . . . .269 

MiUtary Tyranny, 273 

Anecdote of Montberaut, 275 

Bossu's Anecdotes, . ' . 277 

McGillivray, . . • 279 

Forest Diplomacy, 285 

Treaty at New York, 291 

Character of McGillivray, 293 

William A. Bowles, 295 

Establishes a Trading Post, 297 

Imprisoned by the Spanish, 299 

The Napoleonist Refugees, 301 

" The Vine and Olive Company," . . . - . . .303 

111 Success of the Adventure, 305 

Dispersion of the Settlers, 307 

Anglo-Saxon Supremacy, 309 



INTRODUCTION 



It has come to be somewhat common for new writers to get 
their books introduced to the world by other hands. The prac- 
tice is not a commendable one ; certainly, at least, it requires 
strong justification in the cliaracter of the book, in the circum- 
stances of the author, or in the relations of both to the public. 

The present case afibrds such justification to an ample extent, 
as the reader who will follow me through a few pages, will freely 
admit. 

I have known "William H. Milbuen from a boy ; his early 
clays were spent within a stone's throw of my father's house in 
Philadelphia. He was born in that city, Sept. 26, 1823. In 
early childhood his eyes were iojured ; the sight of one was 
lost irretrievably, and of the other, partially. From that day to 
this he has lived on, nearly, but not quite, blind ; sometimes able 
to read, painfully and slowly indeed, but yet to read. A blessing 
has this small share of occasional eye-sight been to him ; many 
a lesson of wisdom from the printed page has that little corner 
of a wounded eye let in to feed and stimulate the apt and quick- 
seeing soul behind it ; and now and then, a winged arrow from 
" the golden quivers of the sky," has sliot into that small open- 
ing of the elsewhere sightless orb always offering itself as a 
willing target. But of the brilliant beauty of the fair earth, 



XU INTEODUCTION. 

trembling in its joy under the ceaseless shower of sunrays on a 
bright day ; of the shining pageants and braveries that every- 
day life affords to every-day eyes ; of the rich dyes that nature 
is ever dropping from her light-tipped fingers — the crimson, the 
purple, and the gold of the evening sky — the pale light of stars 
studding the deep azure — the violet, the purple, and the emerald 
of garden, and field, and meadow ; of the full effluence of 

That tide of glory which no rest doth know, 
But ever ebb and ever flow, 

— of all these he knows nothing except by recollection and by 
imagination. 

But he has this great advantage over the born blind, or even 
over those who have become totally blind in after life, that he is 
not entirely dependent upon what others tell him about the outer 
world ; that he did get images of it in his childhood, which still 
furnish the inner chambers of his soul ; and that he yet sees, 
now and then, at least, a little of the world's beauty — enough to 
stimulate his fancy and at the same time to rectify its aberra- 
tions. 

And as the eye, however physically perfect, is only an instru- 
ment for the mind to use ; as it remains true, now as ever, that 
the eye only sees in nature what it brings means of seeing ; so, 
Mr. Milburn's little modicum of vision has availed him more, 
for all purposes of culture, than most men's perfect eye-sight. 
It is doubtless true, also, that his very defect of vision has 
quickened his power of attention, enlarged his faculty of obser- 
vation, and strengthened his memory of things once seen. At 
all events, in these capacities he is very largely endowed. But, 
above and beyond all this, he has that richest of all possessions 
to any man — precious, especially, above all price, to Am, 

The light that never was on sea or land ; 
The vision and the faculty divine, 

which floods, for its possessor, all things, visible and invisible, 
with its unceasing radiance, brighter than the sunlight. Under 
this inspiration his mind clothes, in its own forms of beauty, the 



iNTRODrCTION. xlll 

world of things he sees not ; weaves, from its own abundant 
stores, garments of light and loveliness for his wife, his children 
and his friends; and creates, from the common material that 
every-day sounds furnish — from tlio talk of the fireside; from a 
friend's voice reading the daily newspaper ; from the street cries, 
the tread of many feet and the rattle of wheels, in the busy city; 
from the tinkle of cow-bells, the babble of brooks, and the songs 
of birds in the country — a world of its own, in which he lives 
(in spite of what appears to be, and is, so great a privation) a 
life far richer in joy and peace and gladness than falls to the 
lot of ordinary men. 



Mr. Milburn left Philadelphia while yet a boy, and for some 
years I lost sight of him. The following sketch of tlie outward 
facts of his Hfe, written by T. B. Tliorpe, Esq., for a New York 
journal, is in the main, I think, accurate ; though it gives no 
notion of the painful and continued struggles of the half-blind 
youth in getting on in the world. " We find him at the age 
of fourteen in Illinois, earning a living as a clerk in a store, 
and by the aid of friends reading to him, occupying his leisure 
time in preparing for college, which he finally accomplished, 
and made great proficiency as a student. In 1843 his health, 
in consequence of close application, failed him, and active life 
was prescribed as the only thing calculated to restore him to 
vigor. Determining to be useful, he commenced his pubHc 
life as a Methodist preacher, and for two years suffered almost 
incredible hardships among the cabins of the West. In the 
fall of 1845, he made his appearance in the Northern and 
Eastern States, as an advocate for the cause of education in 
the West, and was everywhere received with enthusiasm, not 
only on account of his intellectual quahties, but also for his 
amiable disposition, and eminent social virtues. On his journey 
north, Mr. Milburn found himself on board of an Ohio river 
steamer, on which were three hundred passengers. From the 
number of days the passengers had been together, Mr. Milburn 
had become pretty well informed of their character, and ho 
found most prominent among the gentlemen, were a number of 



Xiv INTRODUCTION. 

members of Congress, on their way to Washington. These gen- 
tlemen had attracted Mr. Milburn's attention, on account of their 
exceptionable habits. On the arrival of Sabbath morning, it 
was rumored through the boat, that a minister was on board, 
and Mr. Milburn, who had up to this time attracted no atten- 
tion, was hunted up and called upon to ' give a discourse.' He 
promptly consented, and in due time commenced divine service. 
The members of Congress, to whom we have alluded, were 
among the congregation, and by common consent had possession 
of the chairs nearest to the preacher. Mr. Milburn gave an 
address suitable to the occasion, full of eloquence and pathos, 
and was listened to throughout with the most intense interest. 
At the conclusion he stopped short, and turning his face, now 
beaming with fervent zeal, towards the ' honorable gentlemen,' 
he said : ' Among the passengers in this steamer, are a number 
of members of Congress ; from their position they should be 
exemplars of good morals and dignified conduct, but from what 
I have heard of them they are not so. The Union of these 
States, if dependent on such guardians, would be unsafe, and all 
the high hopes I have of the future of my country would be 
dashed to the ground. These gentlemen, for days past, have 
made the air heavy with profane conversation, have been con- 
stant patrons of the bar, and encouragers of intemperance ; nay 
more, the night, which should be devoted to rest, has been dedi- 
cated to the horrid vices of gambling, profanity and drunkenness. 
And,' continued Mr. Milburn, with the solemnity of a man who 
spoke as if by inspiration, 'there is but one chance of salvation 
for these great sinners in high places, and that is, to humbly 
repent of their sins, call on the Saviour for forgiveness, and 
reform their lives.' 

"As might be supposed, language so bold from a delicate strip- 
ling, scarcely twenty-two years of age, had a startling effect. 
The audience separated, and the preacher returned to his state- 
room, to think upon what he had said. Conscious, after due 
reflection, that he had only done his duty, he determined at all 
hazards to maintain his position, even at the expense of being 
rudely assailed, if not lynched. While thus cogitating, a rap 
was heard at his state-room door, a gentleman entered and 



INTRODUCTION. XV 

stated that he came with a message from the members of Con- 
gress — that they had listened to his remarks, and in considera- 
tion of his boldness and his eloquence, they desired him to 
accept a purse of money which they had made up among them- 
selves, and also, their best wishes for his success and happiness 
through life. 

" But this chivalrous feeling, so characteristic of western men 
when they meet bold thought and action combined, carried 
these gentlemen to more positive acts of kindness ; becoming 
acquainted with Mr. Milburn, when they separated from him, 
they offered the unexpected service of making him Chaplain to 
Congress, a promise which they not only fulfilled, but through 
the long years that have passed away since that event, have 
cherished for the ' blind preacher ' the warmest personal regard 
and stand ever ready to support him by word and deed. 

"His election to the oflBce of Chaplain to Congress, so honora- 
bly conferred, brought him before the nation, and his name 
became familiar in every part of the Union. His health still 
being delicate, in the year 1847 he went south for the advantage 
of a mild climate, and took charge of a church in Alabama. For 
six years he labored industriously in Mobile and Montgomery 
cities of that State, and in four years of that time, preached one 
thousand five hundred times, and travelled over sixty thousand 
miles." 

In all his different spheres of ministerial labor, Mr. Milburn 
devoted himself to his work with the zeal and fidelity which so 
generally characterize the clergy of the Methodist Episcopal 
Church. But, as may readily be understood, his blindness was 
a great impediment to the due fulfillment of the pastoral func- 
tion under the itinerant law of the Methodist ministry. The 
necessity of removing a growing family from place to place 
every two years was, of itself, too great a task ; and, although 
Mr. MiJburn's great power of endurance, and remarkable physi- 
cal as well as mental aptitude for public speech, would make it 
easy for him to discharge the pulpit duties of a fixed and per- 
manent charge, no such permanency of the pastoral relation is 
compatible with the general system of Methodism. In the sum- 
mer of 1853 he returned to New York, and fixed his abode 



XVI INTEODIJCTION. 

there. Since that period he has devoted hrmself, first, to his 
great life-work, preaching the Gospel in such churches in the 
city as needed occasional service in addition to, or in place of, 
the regular pastorate ; and secondly, to the delivery of public 
lectures. It was a bold procedure, but its eminent success fully 
justified its sagacity. Stepping into the field at a time when a 
number of the richest and most fertile minds in the country 
were engaged before the public as lecturers, and when the pub- 
lic ear had grown fastidious from cultivation, Mr. Milburn took 
no second rank, and his reputation is now spread abroad 
throughout the length and breadth of the land. 

This preeminent success could only have been achieved by 
preeminent powers. I have already spoken of Mr. Milburn as a 
man of genius ; but this high gift goes but little way in the line 
of literary life which Mr. Milburn has chosen, unless supple- 
mented by good habits of labor. And his industry is untiring. 
No source of information within his reach is left unransacked 
for facts to form the groundwork of his lectures : the reader of 
this volume will see that in each discourse the lody is made up 
of sound and valuable information, in the best sense of the 
word. He will see, too, that the lecturer's turn of mind is sin- 
gularly practical ; and that in the ethical and religious bearings 
of his subject, his line of thought is always clear and definite, as 
of one whose philosophy of life had been the fruit of thorough 
reflection. Sense — hard, substantial sense — ^is one of the most 
marked characteristics of Mr. Milburn's lectures, as well as of 
his cermons. 

Mr. Milburn's devotion to books, and the difficulties with 
which his path as a student has been environed, have been 
before spoken of. I cannot do better, upon this point, than to 
present to the reader the following imperfect newspaper report 
of an address dehvered by him at the "Pubhsher's Festival," 
held at the Crystal Palace, in New York, in 1855 : . 

" Me, Peesident : I sincerely thank you for your honorable 
recognition of the Clergy. Perhaps that branch of it to which 
I belong may not be the least worthy to respond to your senti- 
ment, for they were probably the first to penetrate the wilds of 



\ 



INTRODUCTION. XVll 

the new countries, carrying those precious commodities — 
books. 

" Were the church compared to an army, I should say that 
the other clergymen present belonged to the artillery, and good 
service are they doing in their permanent positions at the bat- 
teries and in the trenches, against our common foes. Ignorance 
and Sin. I happened to be drafted into the Light Brigade, 
whose service was upon the outskirts of the camp. In a minis- 
try, the twelfth year of which completed itself yesterday, it has 
fallen to my lot to travel over two hundred thousand miles in 
the performance of clerical duties. Our training, as itinerant 
ministers, began in the saddle, and in lieu of holsters, we carried 
saddle-bags crammed with books for study and for sale ; for our 
church economy held it a duty of the minister to circulate good 
books, as well as to preach the Word, 

"Let me change the figure. Although we were graduates of 
Brush College and the Swamp University, we were always the 
friends of a wholesome literature. Picture, then, a young 
itinerant, clad in blue jean, or copperas homespun ; his nether 
extremities adorned with leggings ; his head surmounted with a 
straw hat in summer, a skin cap in winter ; dismounting from 
the finest horse in the settlement, at the door of a log cabin, 
which may serve as a schoolhouse or a squatter's home, care- 
fully adjusting on his arm the well-worn leather bookcase. See 
him as he enters the house of one room, where is assembled the 
little congregation of half a dozen or a dozen hearers — ^back- 
woods farmers and hunters, bringing with them their wives and 
little ones, their hounds and rifles. The religious service is gone 
through, regularly as in a cathedral. At its close, our young 
friend opens the capacious pockets of his saddle-bags, displaying 
on the split-bottom chair, which has served him aw a pulpit, his 

p little stock of books, to the eager gaze of the foresters. 

" Thus day after day does the circuit-rider perform his double 
duties, as preacher and bookseller. Not a few men of my 
acquaintance have driven a large trade in this line, turning 
thereby many an honest penny. The plan was designed to 
work as a two-edged sword, cutting both ways — to place a 

I sound religious literature in the homes of the people, and (as we 

1 



XVIU INTEODTJCTION. 

bought at a discount of thirty-three per cent.) to enable men 
whose salaries were a hundred dollars a year (and who rejoiced 
greatly if they received half that amount) to provide themselves 
with libraries. But most of my sales were on credit, and some 
of the accounts are still, after eleven years, outstanding. I 
therefore quitted the business at the end of the first year. 

'^From this picture you will see that the relations of the 
clergy to the book trade are more intimate than may be gene- 
rally known. 

"But wherefore am I speaking, at a festival given to literary 
men — a man who cannot read ? No one would cast a shadow, 
however slight, upon a joyous scene like this. But if a testi- 
mony to the worth of knowledge may be wrung from infirmity, 
surely a further personal allusion may be pardoned. 

" Time was, when after a fashion I could read, but never with 
that flashing glance, which instantly transfers a word, a line, a 
sentence from the page to the mind. It was the perpetuation of 
the child's process, a letter at a time, alwayi pelling, never 
reading truly. Thus, for more than twenty years, with the 
shade upon the brow, the hand upon the cheek, the finger beneath 
the eye, to make an artificial pupil, with beaded sweat, joining 
with the hot tears trickling from the weak and paining organ, 
to bhster upon the page, was my reading done. Nevertheless, 
as I have striven to study my native tongue in Shakspeare's dic- 
tionary, and eloquence in the well-nigh inspired page of Milton, 
or endeavored to look through the sightless sockets, yet light- 
giving mind of Homer upon the plain of Troy ; or have sat me 
at the wayside, with solitary Bartimeus, to hear, if we could not 
see the Son of Man, I have found that knowledge is its own 
exceeding great reward. 

" The waters of the fountain of learning are not the less, per- 
haps more sweet, because mixed with the bitter drops of suf- 
fering. 

"Gentlemen booksellers, the leaves you scatter are from the 
tree whose fruit is for the healing of the nations. Gentlemen 
publishers, the well-heads opened in your press-rooms may send 
forth streams to refresh and gladden the homes of a continent, 
so that ' the parched land shall become a pool, and the thirsty 



INTKODUCTION. XIX 

land springs of water, and in the habitation of dragons, where 
each lay, shall be grass with weeds and rushes.' 

" But if I magnify the office of a maker and seller of a book, 
how much more the author's. As Wolfe sadly and sweetly 
recited Gray's Elegy, upon the St. Lawrence, the night before 
his glorious fall on the plains of Abraham, he said, ' I would 
rather have the honor of writing that poem, than of taking 
Quebec to-morrow.' 

" Were I to paraphrase his thoughts to my wish, it would be 
thus. Could I have written the Sketch Booh (turning to 
Mr. Irving), almost every word of which I had by heart, before 
I was eight years old ; or could I have sung that ode commenc- 
ing, ' The Groves were God's first temples' (turning to Mr. Bry- 
ant), which I committed to memory in a saddle on a western 
prairie, cheerfully would I go through life, binding this badge of 
infirmity upon my brow, to wear it as a crown ; or groping in 
the unbroken darkness, so were it the Father's will, for three- 
score years and ten of man's appointed time. 

" But what though the Sage's pen and Poet's song be not 
ours to utter and to wield ! Is not the man greater than the 
author ? JSTor is theirs any ignoble lot who are called to learn 
and show that, 

» They also serve, who only stand and wait.' " 

So much for what is peculiar in the circumstances of the 
author of this book ; a few words now as to the book itself. It 
purports to contain " Lectures for the People," and it must be 
judged in view of its title. Let the reader remember, too, that 
Mr. Milburn's training has been that of a speaher^ not of a writer ; 
that his culture, self-obtained for the most part, though wide and 
many-sided, has been directed, with a wise economy, to the 
development of his admirable natural powers of oratory. In the 
Methodist Church, as is well known, sermons are preached, not 
read ; and it is no part of the aim of a Methodist sermon, in the 
proper sense of the word, to give simply intellectual pleasure. 
The ministers and people of that church, in general, agree with 
William Aethue that in the study for a sermon, "attention to 
style ought to be with a view, not to beauty, but to power:" 



XX INTEODUCTION. 

that, in the pulpit, "all thought of style is thougl\t wasted, and 
even worse. The gift of prophesying, in its very ideal, excludes 
relying for utterance upon a manuscript, or upon memory. It is 
the delivery of truth by the help of God."* In this school of 
preachers, freedom and power are never sacrificed to finisli. But 
in these very points of freedom and power, it is a wondei-ful 
school; and Mr. Milburn got his first training as a speaker ip^it. 
His sermons are not, in the proper sense of the word, theologi- 
cal ; indeed, it may be questioned whether a good sermon ad 
populum ever is. Eesting upon a sound and thorough theologi- 
cal basis, and built up, in all its parts, in due relation to theo- 
logical system, the sermon is an address to the people, aiming to 
instruct, to convince, to awaken, to alarm, to encourage, to 
soothe ; and it accomplishes these ends best by appealing to the 
human heart as answering to the grand fundamental facts and 
truths of Christianity ; by bringing its appeals home to men's 
business and bosoms in simple yet earnest and glowing phrase ; 
by concealing, rather than revealing, its strictly theological or 
scholastic articulations ; and by drawing its illustrations from 
the field of nature, from the records of history, from the walks 
of trade, from the every-day current of human life and affairs. 
In this sense Mr. Milburn is a thoroughly effective preacher; 
always earnest, always thoughtful, but never coldly correct or 
artistically dull. 

With proper allowance for differences of topic and of aims, 
what has been said of Mr. Milburn's sermons is true also of his 
lectures. They are written not only /or the ear, but, so to speak, 
ty the ear. And this is one secret, doubtless, of their eminent suc- 
cess. The popular lecture is not an essay, slowly developing its 
lines of thought from a central point in careful and strictly logi- 
cal concatenation, admitting, and often requiring, deliberate and 
repeated reading to get at its harmonious connections, or, if it be 
of the lighter sort, to appreciate its delicate turns of thought and 
niceties of phrase. It aims rather to give broad views that may 
be apprehended by the hearer as they fall from the lips of the 
speaker ; to afford " ready-made instruction ;" to stir up the hear- 

* The Tongue of Fire, p. 822. 



INTRODUCTION. XXI 

er's mind to quick yet not laborious activity — an activity that 
shall cheer and enliven the intellect, rather than weary it. Not 
that it is to be barren of thought: its range may be as wide 
and varied, its reach even may be as profound as you please, but 
it must convey thought by strokes, rather than by elaboration ; 
it must tell a history by pictures, rather than by connected nar- 
rative ; its logic must be that of analogy and illustration, rather 
than of obvious syllogism ; its ethical teaching must be implied, 
rather than direct. 

Tried by this standard, the lectures in this volume need not 
fear a thorough scrutiny. And when it is remembered that this 
is the author's first appearance before the public in print, and 
that he now appears with a volume announced as a collection of 
spoken lectures, the reader will only have cause to wonder at the 
degree of refinement of style and elegance of manner, which the 
pages of the book display. He will find no ambiguities of 
phrase ; no wandering or meaningless sentences ; no paragraphs 
put in to fill up ; but lucid narrative, glowing descriptions, ear- 
nest thought, and genial feeling everywhere. 

It may be proper to add, that some of the matter of the fol- 
lowing pages may have appeared before ; but, if so, it has only 
been in newspaper reports made from the old delivery of the 
lectures. 

J. McClintock. 

New York, Sej)t, 10, 1856. 



-^^ 



THE 



RIFLE, AXE, AND SADDLE-BAGS. 



THE SYMBOLS OF EARLY WESTERN CHARACTER AND 
CIVILIZATION. 

Man has been defined to be " a tool-using animal." 
His impalements may be taken as tbe gauge of his 
power and the measure of his explorations and con- 
quests in the domain of nature. Ofttimes has it hap- 
pened that the sublimest results have been achieved 
by the simplest instrumentalities. With the weak 
things of this world and the things that are not, hath 
God brought to naught the things that are, and the 
things that are mighty. And this further rule holds 
good — 'in order to have work well done, your tools 
must be suited to those who are to handle them. 
Apollo's lyre is for the poet ; for the husbandman, the 
handles of the plough. Each after his kind fulfills a 
noble mission, as he goes upon his proper way. 

Amid the evolutions of Providence and the develop- 
ments of history, the period had arrived when a 

2 25 



26 THE RIFLE, AXE, AND SADDLE-BAGS. 

great task was to be wrought. That magnificent ter- 
ritory, named the Yalley of the Mississippi, sweeping 
away from the foot of the Appalachian chain for thou- 
sands of miles, until its undulations are abruptly ter- 
minated beneath the gigantic shadows of the Rocky 
Mountains — that illimitable prairie ocean, dotted 
with innumerable isles of j)rimeval forest, and with 
noble groves of later birth — -was to be wrung from 
the grasp of barbarians — was to be reclaimed from 
the ownership of the wild beast, and made the seat 
of the greatest empire of Christian civilization. 

The object was a lofty one, worthy the prowess and 
ambition of any race. Spain had tried to achieve it, 
but Ponce de Leon — typifying Castilian romance — 
found in the attempt only a death-wound, and his 
flower-land of immortality refused him even a grave. 
Hernando de Soto — representing its chivalry — with 
steel-clad warriors and doughty men-at-arms, with 
silken pennons and braided scarfs, with lance, and 
mace, and battle-axe, with blood-hounds to hunt the 
natives, and manacles to enslave them, witli cards for 
gambling and consecrated oil for extreme unction, 
sought to subdue the land and to possess it. Leaving 
a trail of tears, fire, and blood from Tampa Bay to 
southwestern Missouri, he reared upon a noble bluff 
of the Mississi]3pi, in the northern corner of what is 
now the State of Arkansas, the first cross ever planted 
within the limits of this Republic, and there per- 
formed the ceremony of the Mass, sixty years before 
the French ascended the St. Lawrence River, and 
eighty years before the Pilgrims landed at Plymouth 
Rock. Perishing of the wilderness, his body is com- 
mitted to the custody of the yellow waves of his own 



FIRST INVADEKS. 27 

" Rio Grande" — tlieir roar liis requiem, their depths 
his mausoleum. Never did a prouder armament than 
his set sail from Spain — a thousand brave men and 
true. Three hundred beggared adventurers alone 
returned to Mexico, with tidings that broke the heart 
of Donna Isabella, De Soto's noble wife. And the 
land of the future is none the richer for chivalry, save 
by a spray of amaranth and a sprig of cypress, from 
the graves of a gallant knight and a true-hearted 
lady. 

Jesuitism and feudalism next sought to achieve 
the conquest. A hundred and thirty years after the 
bmial of De Soto, the saintly Marquette reaches the 
upper Mississippi, through the outlet of the "river 
of sky-colored water," and names it the River of the 
Conception. Seven years later. La Salle traversed 
the liquid highway to the Gulf, and called it the 
River Colbert. The priest strove to convert the 
savages and win them to the true faith. The com- 
mercial soldier sought, by the erection of a line of 
posts from Niagara to the Balize, to render the land 
tributary to the crown of the Grand Monarch. The 
Jesuit sleeps at Mackinaw, the trader in the plains of 
Texas. The ambition of the latter was as futile as 
the pious zeal of the former. Neither for a fief of 
the See of Rome, nor for a province of the empire 
of the lilies, had the land been held in reserve by 
the God of the nations. It was kept in store for 
a grander race than that from which Robert Cavalier 
de la Salle had sprung — ^for the empire of a simpler 
and mightier faith than that preached by the holy 
and inti-epid James Marquette. The sons of men 
who won their liberties at Runnymede ; of men who 



28 THE EIFLE, AXE, AND SADDLE-BAGS. 

had learned to read tlie open English Bible by the 
light which God's Spirit had kindled in their hearts ; 
of men who had renounced lands and homes for faith 
and freedom dearer than life, were to become the 
winners of this soil. Glorious conscripts were thej, 
sublime in their lowliness, fit for the great task. 
Hard fought was their battle, and long ; ours are the 
fruits of their victory. Tlieirs was the march in the 
desert ; the goodliness of the triumph they saw only 
as in Pisgah's vision ; we dwell in the peace and 
plenty of the promised land. 

What the might of Castihan valor, the unconquer- 
able devotion of Jesuit zeal, the indomitable will 
of feudal power were unable to accomplish, was 
wrought out by a few simple men with a few homely 
tools — ^tools, be it observed, suited to their hands. 
The implements are symbolic of the men and of 
their period — the Eifle, Axe, and Saddle-bags. They 
typify the hunter, the pioneer farmer, and the early 
travelling preacher. 

On a fine spring morning, in the" year 1Y69, a 
humble hunter crossed the threshold of his log cabin, 
on the head waters of the Yadkin Kiver, in the prov- 
ince of [N'orth Carolina. The brutal Governor Tryon, 
with his myrmidons, had been laying waste the coun- 
try, and violating the rights of the colonists. Popu- 
lation, with its westward instinct, had been pressing 
into the neighborhood, until the eye of the hunter, as 
he stood in his door-yard, could note the hour of 
breakfast by the smoke from a score of chimneys. 
He was neither morbid nor misanthropic ; yet, dis- 
gusted by the license of sherifis and the tricks of 
lawyers, '^ cabined, cribbed, confined," by the neigh- 



THE UNTAMED WILDERNESS. 29 

borliood of settlers, longing for the freedom of tlie 
forest and of tlie unbroken prairie, his ear had wel- 
comed the tale of his friend, John Finley, w^ho, two 
years before, had visited a region called by the 
savages, " the dark and bloody ground." Glowing, 
indeed, was the story which the trader told of the 
goodliness of the land ; of its beautiful streams, 
clear as crystal ; of its glorious woods, where the 
wind was the only feller ; of its plains which a share 
had never furrowed, covered with sward freshly 
green as emerald, decked with flowers of countless 
hues and ceaseless fragrance ; of salt licks visited by 
herds of buffalo which no man could number — 
thronged by bear and deer — a region where larger 
game was in such plenty, that the woodsman dis- 
dained to waste a ball upon a turkey. Greedily did 
the ear of the hunter diink in the tale, great was the 
longing of his heart that his eye might look upon the 
land, and his foot j)ress its virgin soil. Much does 
he brood and dream in the two long years, from '67 
to '69, amid his solitary hunts and rambles, of this 
new paradise. His desire has ripened into a passion, 
and now, on this bright May morning, his plough is 
forsaken in the middle of the furrow, his team is left 
afield. Hastening to his cabin, his rifle is snatched 
from its pegs, a store of powder and bullets provided, 
his knapsack filled with "dodgers," and strapped 
upon his shoulders ; and here, outside the door, he 
stands, beneath the shadow of a spreading tree ; his 
tall and manly form cased in buckskin, his face 
bronzed by wind, and sun, and storm; silent as an 
Indian, agile as a deer, tough as a panther. Around 
that man's name time has summoned the surviving 



30 THE KIFLE, AXE, AND SADDLE-BAGS. 

arts to do Mm honor and homage. The sculptor has 
invoked the chisel and the imperishable marble to 
perpetuate his form. The painter has employed 
color and canvas to transmit his look and features. 
History, with her iron pen and adamantine tablet, 
has come to write his fame ; and poetry, divinest of 
them all, has laid upon his brow the perennial gar- 
land of song. But he is sad. While the hunter 
longs for the forest, has not the father and the hus- 
band a heart ? Wife and children are near at hand 
to say good-bye, perhaps for ever. Tears overflow 
the eye, unused to weep. A hasty farewell, and he 
is gone. A toilsome march of six weeks, with five com- 
panions, across the Alleghanies, through the valleys 
of the Clinch and the Holston, over the Cumberland 
range, and his goal is gained. Is it not an Eden, this 
land upon which his eye now rests ? A more glorious 
realm the foot of man hath never trod since Joshua 
crossed the Jordan. A great joy dwells in the heart 
of Daniel Boone, for the half had not been told him. 
Our backwoodsmen enjoy a hunt of six months 
and a half, when Boone and one of his companions, 
"William Stewart, are taken prisoners by a band of 
savages. A week's captivity, and they escape. Soon 
afterwards Stewart is shot by the savages. The 
others of the party, intimidated, resolve instantly to 
retreat ; not so Boone. He has come to see the land 
from end to end, nor will he falter, whate'er betide, 
until the end be reached. They go, but he remains. 
He is the one white man who dares to trast himself 
alone with E"ature. We call him a backwoods 
hunter; is he not a kind of poet too, whose song 
reaches none but his own heart? That incense- 



DANIEL BOONE. 31 

breatliing atmosphere fills him with unspoken glad- 
ness, the early morn blushes him a greeting, mid- 
clay paints the world with splendor for the wayfarer, 
and the gorgeous hues of sunset are gathered up and 
thrown around his path, as if the parting day would 
smile him to his rest. The green savannah spreads 
beneath his glance until its verdant edge blends with 
the soft light of the horizon. Here the tall shafts of 
majestic trees tell whence came the architecture of 
Gothic churches. Pebbly brooks lift their . sweet 
voices to his ear ; while the face of creek and river 
wears the sheen of molten silver. Is not this an 
apocalyptic vision for the wanderer ? 

Partly alone, partly accompanied by his brother, 
he spies out the riches of the land. He has need to 
be wary, for sleepless enemies are seeking him, but 
he eludes their Ijoix-eyed vigilance. The woods and 
meadows of Kentucky are sown with a peculiar thistle 
which long retains the imprint of a foot. The 
Indians, in large parties, do not seek to conceal their 
trail. Boone and his brother, avoiding this tell-tale 
weed, completely obliterated their own footprints. 
The earth is bare to the eye of the savages. To the 
tutored gaze of the white men it is as if covered with 
snow, revealing the presence and number of their 
enemies. Thus are two years spent by our hardy 
yeomen, pioneers of the Anglo-American family. 

Two years and a half more are dreamed and 
hunted away by Boone upon the» Yadkin, until, in 
September, 1773, with a company of six families and 
forty armed men, he starts to take possession of his 
paradise. The teams are slowly laboring up the dif- 
ficult side of Cumberland Gap, when, unexpected as 



32 THE EIFLE, AXE, AND SADDLE-BAGS. 

a bolt from a cloudless heaven, an iron sleet falls 
upon tlie movers' rear, from an Indian ambnscade. 
The savages are instantly routed ; but six whites are 
slain, among whom is Boone's eldest son — first fruits 
of the fearful harvest which war must reap and 
garner before peace can assert and maintain its title 
to Kentucky and the West. Thus far in history man's 
right to all his best possessions has been written in 
blood. Well had the Indians named their choicest 
hunting grounds the " dark and bloody land." Thus 
shall it be for the Americans, also, for many a sad 
year to come. For more than twenty years — from 
the delivery of that fatal volley, in 1YY3, until 
Wayne's treaty, in 1795 — the din of war was never 
hushed upon the frontier. It is not my purj)ose to 
trace the eventful story of Daniel Boone, nor to por- 
tray the growth and spread of American society in 
the West. My design is neither biographic nor his- 
torical, but simjDly to present a series of pictures 
which shall delineate the character of the people, and 
the lives they lived. 



I. 

THE KIFLE. 

The following story illustrates the historical period 
of which I take the Rifle for the symbol. 

As early as the year 1Y90, the block house and 
stockade, just above the month of the Hockhocking 
Eiver, constituted a frontier post for the hardy pio- 
neers of the Northwestern territory. Among the 
most luxuriant of the many beautiful prairies of that 
region, were those which lay along the Hockhocking 
valley, and especially that portion of it in which the 
town of Lancaster now stands. This neighborhood, 
on account of its beauty, richness of soil, and pic- 
turesque scenery, had been selected as the site of an 
Indian village. It afforded a suitable place for the 
gambols of the Indian children, as well as the central 
point for assembling the Indian warriors. Here the 
tribes of the West and North met in council, and from 
this spot they went forth upon the war-path in differ- 
ent directions. Upon one of those occasions, when 
the war-spirit moved mightily among those sons of 
nature, when the tomahawk leaped in its belt, and 
the spirits of their friends, slain on the field of battle, 
visited the warrior in his night-vision, and called upon 
him to rouse and avenge them, it was ascertained at 
the garrison above the mouth of the Hockhocking, 

9^ 83 



34 THE RIFLE, AXE, AND SADDLE-BAGS. 

that the Indians were gathering in great numbers for 
the purpose of striking a blow on some part of the 
frontiers. To meet this crisis, two of the most skillful 
and indefatigable spies were dispatched to watch their 
movements and report. 

White and McClelland, two of the most expe- 
rienced scouts at the post, on a balmy Indian summer 
day, took leave of their fellows, and set out on this 
hazardous enterprise. "With stealthy step they skirted 
the prairies, and successfully prosecuted their hidden 
march, until they reached that remarkable promi- 
nence, now known as Point Pleasant, which stretches, 
an isolated promontory, into the valley, from the east- 
ern side ; its western termination rising abruptly from 
the river's edge, in a perpendicular cliff several hun- 
dred feet high, and its bare and lofty summit com- 
manding a wide prospect over the extensive bottom. 
This point being gained, the spies could see every 
movement of the savages in the valley below. From 
their hiding-place, on the crest of the bluff, they daily 
looked down upon the Indian village in the meadows 
near the northern base, and upon the booths around 
it, erected for the use of the war-parties, successively 
arriving. They watched the younger warriors, engaged 
in horse-racing, foot-racing, leaping, tomahawk-throw- 
ing, or performing the wild ceremony of the war- 
dance ; while the sachems and old men looked on 
with Indian indifference, the squaws passed to and 
fro on the errands of their usual drudgery, and the 
children ran and gambolled hither and thither among 
the huts. The whoops and shouts of the young men 
rose to their ears, mingled with the musical laughter 
of the more youthful squaws, and the shrill and dis- 



WHITE AND McClelland. 35 

sonant voices of tbe feminine elders. The arrival of 
every new war-party was greeted with terrific yells, 
which, striking the mural face of Mount Pleasant, 
were driven back by the various indentations of the 
blufiB beyond the valley, producing reverberations 
and echoes as if ten thousand fiends were gathered 
at a festival. Such yells would have struck terror to 
the hearts of those unaccustomed to Indian revelry. 
To our spies, however, they were but martial music ; 
strains which waked their watchfulness, and newly 
strung their veteran courage. From their early 
youth they had been on the frontier, and were well 
practised in all the subtleties of Indian warfare. 
They were, therefore, not likely to be ensnared by 
their cunning, nor, without a desperate conflict to fall 
victims to the scalping-knife or tomahawk. On 
several occasions small parties left the praiiie, and 
ascended the mount from the eastern side. At such 
times the spies secreted themselves in the deep fis- 
sures of the rocks on the west, coming forth from 
their hiding-places when their unwelcome visitors 
had disappeared. 

For food they depended on jerked venison and 
corn-bread, with which their knapsacks were well 
stored. They dared not kindle a fire ; and the report 
of one of their guns would have brought upon them 
the entire force of the Indians. For drink they used 
the rain water which stood here and there in the 
hollows of the rocks ; but in a short time this store 
was exhausted, and McClelland and White found 
that they must abandon their enterprise or obtain a 
new supply. McClelland, being the oldest, resolved 
to make the dangerous attempt ; and with his rifle in 



36 THE RIFLE, AXE, AND SADDLE-BAGS. 

his liancl, and tlieii- two canteens strung across Ms 
shoulders, he cautiously descended, by a circuitous 
route, to the prairie, skirting the hills on the north ; 
under cover of the hazel bushes, he reached the 
river, and turning a bold point of a hill, found a 
beautiful spring within a few feet of the bank, now 
known by the name of '' Cold Spring." He speed- 
ily tilled his canteens and returned in safety to his 
companion. It was hereupon determined to have a 
fresh supply of water every day, and the duty of 
bringing it was performed alternately. 

One day, after White had filled his canteens, he 
sat a few moments watching the limpid element as it 
came bubbling out of the bosom of the earth, when 
the light sound of footsteps caught his practised ear, 
and upon turning round, he saw two squaws within 
a few feet of him. Upon turning the point of the 
hill, the eldest squaw, seeing him, gave one of those 
far-reaching whoops peculiar to Indians. White at 
once comprehended his perilous situation. If the 
alarm should reach the camps or the town, he and 
his companion must inevitably perish. Self-preserva- 
tion compelled him to inflict a noiseless death upon 
the squaws, and in such a manner, if possible, as to 
leave no trace behind. Rapid in thought, and prompt 
in action, he instantly sprang upon his victims, and, 
gi'asping the throat of each, jumped into the river. 
He thrust the head of the eldest under water ; but 
while making strong efforts to submerge the other, 
who powerfully resisted him, what was his astonish- 
ment to hear her address him in his own language, 
though in almost inarticulate sounds. Releasing his 
hold, she informed him that she had been a captive 



THE FEMALE CAPTIVE. 37 

for ten years, and was taken from below Wheeling ; 
that the Indians had killed all her family, and that 
her brother and herself were taken prisoners, but that 
he succeeded in making his escape on the second 
night after he was taken. During this narrative 
White had drowned the elder squaw, and had let her 
float off with the current. He then directed the girl 
to follow him, and pushed rapidly for the mount. 
They had scarcely gone half-way, when they heard 
the alarm-cry a quarter of a mile down the stream. 
A party of Indians, returning from a hunting-excur- 
sion, had reached the river just as the body of the 
squaw floated by. White and the girl succeeded in 
reaching the summit, where McClelland had been no 
indifferent spectator of the commotion among the 
Indians. Parties of warriors had struck off' in all 
directions ; and White and the girl had scarcely 
arrived, before a band of about twenty had reached 
the eastern declivity of the mount, and had com- 
menced the ascent, cautiously keeping under cover. 
The spies watched their swarthy foes as they glided 
from tree to tree, and rock to rock, until their position 
was surrounded, excejDt on the perpendicular side to 
the westward, and all hope of escape was cut off. In 
this perilous condition nothing was left but to sell 
their lives as dearly as |)ossible, and this they resolved 
to do ; advising the girl "to escape to the Indians and 
tell them that she had been taken prisoner. This, 
however, she refused to do, and insisted upon remain- 
ing with them, assm-ing them that she was a good 
shot, and begging to be furnished with a rifle, which, 
however, they were unable to supply. 
The two spies, though so far outnumbered, were 



38 THE RIFLE, AXE, AND SADDLE-BAGS. 

admirably posted. The very rocky and broken sur- 
face of the summit of the hill, served to prevent the 
Indians from discovering the number of men that 
held it ; while, from the nature of the ground below, 
no savage could advance beyond a certain line with- 
out becoming exposed to the aim of the unknown 
marksmen above. Beyond this space, the warriors 
availed themselves of the rocks and trees in advanc- 
ing ; but in passing from one side of it to the other, 
they must be exposed for a short time ; and a moment 
was enough for the unerring rifles of the spies. The 
Indians, being entirely ignorant of the number of 
their adversaries in ambuscade, were the more cau- 
tious in their approach. 

"While bravely maintaining the fight in front, and 
keeping the enemy in check, the whites discovered a 
new danger. The foe were evidently preparing to 
attack them on the flank ; which could most success- 
fully be done by reaching an isolated rock lying in 
one of the ravines on the southern side of the hill. 
This rock once gained by the Indians, they could 
bring the spies under point blank shot of their rifles, 
without the possibility of escape. The two scouts saw 
the hopelessness of their situation ; for only a brave 
companion and unerring shot could avert the peril. 
^Nevertheless, with characteristic coolness, they con- 
tinued their defence, and, calculating the additional 
chances against them, endeavored, as far as possible, 
to provide for the new emergency. 

McClelland saw a tall and swarthy warrior prepar- 
ing to spring from a covert, so near to the fatal rock 
that a bound or two would reach it, and all hope of 
life would then be gone. He felt that all depended 



THE MYSTEEIOIJS SHOT. 39 

upon one successful shot, and although but an inch 
or two of the warrior's body was exposed, and that 
at a distance of eighty or a hundred yards, he resolved 
to risk all ; and coolly raising his rifle to his face, and 
shading the sights with his hand, he drew a bead so 
sure that he felt confident it would do execution. He 
touched the trigger — the hammer came down — but 
instead of striking fire it broke the flint to pieces. 
Although he felt assured that the Indian must reach 
the rock before he could adjust another flint, he 
nevertheless coolly proceeded to the task, casting his 
eye towards the fearful point. Suddenly he saw the 
warrior straining every muscle for the leap, and with 
the agility of a panther he made the spring, but 
instead of reaching the rock he gave a hideous yell, 
and his dark body rolled lifeless down the steep into 
the valley below. He had received a death shot 
from some unknown hand. A. hundred voices 
re-echoed from below the terrible shout. It was 
evident that they had both lost a favorite warrior 
and been disappointed in an important movement. 
The respite was of short duration. In a few minutes 
tlie spies caught a glimpse of another athletic savage 
cautiously advancing to the covert recently occupied 
by his companion. At the same time the attack in 
front was renewed with increased fury, so as to 
require the incessant fire of both spies to prevent the 
Indians from gaining the eminence. McClelland 
saw the warrior preparing for the fatal spring. The 
leap was made, and the Indian turning a somerset, 
his corpse rolled down the mountain side towards 
that of his companion. Again some unknown agent 
had interposed in their belialf. This second sacrifice 



40 THE EIFLE, AXE, AND SADDLE-BAGS. 

cast dismay into the ranks of the assailants, and just 
as the sun was disappearing behind the western hills, 
the foe withdrew, to devise some new mode of attack. 
This intermission came most seasonably to the spies, 
who had kept their ground and bravely maintained 
the unequal fight from nearly the middle of the day. 

]^ow for the first time the spies observed that the 
girl was missing ; they were conjecturing that through 
terror she had escaped to her former captors, or that 
she had been killed during the fight ; but she was soon 
seen emerging from behind a rock, and coming 
toward them with a rifle in her hand. During the 
heat of the fight she saw a warrior fall, who had 
advanced some distance before the rest, and while 
some of them changed their position, she resolved at 
once to secure his gun and ammunition ; and crouch- 
ing down beneath the underbrush, she crawled to the 
place and succeeded in her enterprise. Her keen 
and watchful eye had early noticed the fatal rock, 
and hers was the unseen hand by which the warriors 
fell. The last was the most intrepid and blood- 
thirsty of the Shawnee tribe, and the leader of the 
company which killed her mother and sisters and 
took her and her brother prisoners. 

1^0 w in the west rose dark clouds which soon over- 
spread the whole heavens, and the hoarse muttering 
of distant thunder foretold a coming storm. Thick 
darkness shrouded the earth, and greatly embarrassed 
the spies with the di-ead that in their contemplated 
night escape, they might lose their way, and acci- 
dentally fall into the hands of their enemy. UxDon 
short consultation, it was agreed that the girl should 
go foremost, both on account of her knowledge of the 



A NAREOW ESCAPE. 41 

localities, and as a protection in case of falling in with 
any parties or outposts ; since from her knowledge of 
the Lidian language, she could readily deceive the 
sentinels. They had scarcely reached the eastern base 
of the mount, before they heard a low ^'whishf^ from 
their guide. At this they sank silently on the ground, 
where, by previous arrangement, they were to remain 
until the signal was given to move on. Her absence 
for the space of a quarter of an horn* began to excite 
suspicion that all was not right, but they were relieved 
by her return, when she informed them that she had 
succeeded in removing two sentinels, who were imme- 
diately in their route, a short distance ahead. The 
descent was noiselessly resmned, and the spies followed 
their intrepid leader for half a mile in the most pro- 
found silence, when the barking of a dog at a short 
distance apprised them of new danger. The almost 
simultaneous click of the spies' triggers was heard by 
the girl, who gave another significant '^whisht^^^ and 
whispered that they were now in the very midst of 
the Indian camps, and that their lives depended on 
maintaining the most profound silence. Lnplicitly 
obeying her directions, and following her footsteps, 
they proceeded, but had not gone far before the girl 
was accosted by a squaw from an opening in a wigwam. 
To the salutation, the girl replied in the Indian lan- 
guage, and pressed on. In a short time, she stopped, 
and turning, informed them that they had left the 
camps, and were out of the greatest danger. She 
l^new that every pass was guarded by the Indians, 
and had resolved to adopt the bold measure of passing 
through the centre of their encampment as least 
hazardous, and the sequel proved the correctness of 



42 THE RIFLE, AXE, AND SADDLE-BAGS. 

her judgment. They now directed their course for 
the Ohio river, and after three days' travel, arrived 
safe at the block house. Their escape prevented the 
Indians from their contemplated attack, and the 
rescued girl proved to be the sister of the intrepid . 
Cornelius Washburn, celebrated in the history of 
Indian warfare, and the renowned spy of Captain 
Simon Kenton's bloody Kentuckians. 

Such was the mettle of the people, and such were 
the dramatic incidents with which their lives were 
interspersed. 

It was a period for the ascendency of Young 
America. I do not mean the thing which has been 
introduced to us by the satuists, under this title. 
In this time of ours, when the sexes seem undergoing 
a transmigration, at least when the distinctions of 
their aj)parel are destroyed; when the women are 
doing in public what they have been so long accus- 
tomed to in private — wearing the pantaloons; and 
the stronger sex, by way of retaliation, have stolen 
their shawls — you may note upon Broadway, or the 
promenade of any of our principal cities, a dapper, 
diminutive thing, which seems to possess some fea- 
tm-es of both sexes, and yet the distinctions of neither. 
Its legs remind you of pipe-stems, its arms of oaten 
straws. It ogles every woman that it meets — staring 
with brazen-faced impudence, till she, from very 
shame, must drop her eyelids, to shut out this aiDpari- 
tion — ^half brute, half baby. It talks magniloquently 
of first circles, and old families, until you fancy that 
its lineage dates from Doomsday Book ; yet its 
father — excellent and worthy man — began life as an 
obscure tailor, or shoemaker, or brick-layer, and by 



THE REAL YOUNG AMERICA. 43 

tlie use of such gifts as lie had, by his industry, econ- 
omy, and enterprise, has achieved fortune and social 
position, and is now enjoying as he should the fruits 
of his labor. He is a notable man, but unfortunately 
does not know how to raise boys. Our dandy, in 
childhood, is dismissed from school as a dunce; in 
youth, is expelled from college as a rowdy. He goes 
to Europe to finish his education; sleeps at all the 
places of pictm-esque, romantic, and historic interest ; 
nods in the Vatican ; votes St. Peter's a bore, because 
it is so big; spends most of his time and money in 
Paris ; boasts of his exploits with the njnnphs of the 
ballet and the Opera — ^to wit, the chamber-maids at his 
lodging-houses. Retm-ning home, he folds his arms 
upon his breast, and with a saddened self-complacency, 
pronounces this a wooden country, not fit for a gen- 
tleman to live in. Henceforth, he aspires to become 
a connoisseur of horse-flesh, an amateur in cigars, 
brandy-smashes, and gin cock-tails; whilst his lofty 
ambition is appeased in that he is a peripatetic 
advertisement for tailors and washer-women. Do 
you call that thing Young America? Tliis is a dis- 
graceful use of words. It has never been yoimg since 
it was a baby ; and as to there being anything Ame- 
rican about it, I repudiate the implication with scorn. 
That whereof I s]peak under this designation, was 
all muscle, nerve, backbone. Take an illustration. 
A lad, thirteen years of age, was sent by his father 
on the northern border of Kentucky, to look for the 
cows which had strayed into the woods. The coun- 
try was infested by the savages ; so the boy picked 
his steps, and kept his rifle ready. A well-known 
scout, who had been out lying on the ti-ail of the 



44 THE EIFLE, AXE, AND SADDLE-BAGS. ' 

IndianSj and, for the greater success of his -mission, 
was so painted and feathered that the most practised 
eye could not distinguish him from a savage, saw the 
lad, and thought to enjoy a little fun at his expense. 
Sounding the shrill war-whoop, he sprang behind ai 
tree, supposing the urchin would run away ; but reall 
Young America does not run from danger. The boy 
treed too. The scout, peeping out to see, as he sup- • 
posed, the receding back and flying heels of thei 
yomigster, received a bullet in his brains, and fell a i 
sacrifice — ^not to the cowardice of Young America. 

Boys of thirteen did good service in the country's 
cause. Boys of fifteen were mustered into the ranks as 
soldiers. Boys of seventeen ambled as peaceably 
in the harness of Hymen as our bachelors of forty 
now do. 

But the fighting times cannot always last. The 
Indian must submit to his destiny, and vanish from 
the presence of the whites. His doom is to follow 
his buffalo to the West. Wlien the buffalo is broken 
to become the yoke-fellow of the ox, the Indian may 
rest where he stands, or retm-n toward the rising sun. 
The aboriginal bison and red man alike refuse the 
burden of labor ; together they must perish. 

Although war no longer invokes the rifle, it is 
retained in constant use. - To this day there is a law 
upon the statute book of Kentucky — unless repealed 
within a year or two — ^i-equiring that every male 
citizen between the ages of sixteen and forty-five, 
shall, within every twelvemonth, kill a certain 
number of crows and squirrels. So it has passed 
into a proverb, that a Kentuckian is a dead shot on a 
squirrel's eye with a rifle at a hundi^ed yards. 



II- 

THE AXE. 

But now there comes to be associated witli the 
gun another implement, homely enough, but which 
has played a conspicuous part in the drama of 
American civilization. It is the Yankee axe. 

PerhajDs I may give a sufficiently graphic picture 
of society during the axe period of the country's 
history, by a series of sketches relating to an event 
of perennial interest to humanity. Will you have a 
description of a western wedding in the quaint old 
days of pioneer life ? 

Early on a fine morning, there rides up to the door 
of a log-cabin, one of our Young American friends, 
about eighteen years of age, on his father's best 
horse and best saddle' — if that worthy gentleman 
own a saddle — the likelihood is that it is nothing but a 
blanket. In the door stands a blithe and buxom 
lassie of fifteen summers, but fully grown and finely 
moulded. Saluting her frankly, he presents his 
horse fair to her. Without recourse to block or 
stile, she lays one hand confidingly on his knee, the 
other on the horse's rump, and throws herself grace- 
fully into the pillion behind him. Thus riding 
double, they start for the parson's, three or four of 
of his male friends bearing them company. There 



46 THE EIFLE, AXE, AND SADDLE-BAGS. 

are no roads except bridle-paths, and they therefore 
ride in Indian file. The old fighting times have 
tanght them one good lesson, to hold their tongues 
nnless they have something to say; hence the party 
is a silent one. Half a dozen or a dozen miles are 
passed, when a clearing in the woods is gained, in 
the centre of which stands a lowly cabin. In its 
door yon shall see one, two, three, four — as it were, 
a series of short steps — of tow-headed nrchins, who 
announce to the inmates the approach of the 
company. The foremost rider gives the customary 
hail, "Hillo, the house there." In obedience to this 
summons there appears upon the threshold a large, 
raw-boned gentleman, not in cassock, bands and sur- 
plice, not even in clerical black, but in a linsey-wool- 
sey or buckskin hunting-shirt. Seeing the strangers, 
he courteously invites them to alight and come in. 
Before this invitation is complied with, however, the 
candidate for matrimonial honors inquires, is the par- 
son at home? His interlocutor responds that he is 
that person. Whereupon the young man announces, 
" You see, this young woman and me have come here 
to git married; kin you do it?" 

"Well, I reckon." 

"Well, we're in a great hurry, kin you do it 
quick?" 

"Certainly." 

The ceremony is proceeded with as regularly as if 
it were in a cathedral. The young people's hands 
are joined, and the good man's benediction is given 
as he pronounces them man and wife. The new hus- 
band asks, 

"Is that all, parson?" 



A. BACKWOODS MAUKIAGE. 47 

"That's all I can do for yon." 

Straightening to his fnH height with great dignity, 
the yonng man inqnires, 

"Well, parson, what's the damage?" 

Parsons are modest men. With a blnsh and a 
stammer, onr clerical friend intimates that the less 
said npon that subject the better. 

"Oh, no, parson," responds the yonng backwoods- 
man. "I wish yon to understand that I don't choose 
to begin, life on tick." 

j Simple folk that they were, they held that a wife 
iwho was not worth paying the parson for, was not 
worth having. Thus ni-ged, the clergyman signi- 
fies, . 

"Anything that is pleasant to you is agreeable 

tome." 

Whereupon the yoimg husband requests one of his 
friends "to fetch it in off the horse's neck." 

Doubtless, the wisest of you, if you have never 
lived upon the frontier, would be puzzled to tell 
what that is on the horse's neck. It turns out to be 
a corn-shuck horse-collar. This is the parson's fee, 
and right glad he is to get it. 

Tlie bridal train return as they have come, until 
within a half mile of the bride's father's cabin, when 
all the young men of the party, save the one with 
the lady behind, start at a helter-skelter gallop through 
the woods, dodging the limbs, jumping the fallen trees, 
yelling and screaming as if they were crazy. This is 
what they call the bottle race. In the door of the 
cabin stands a gentleman, his arm uplifted, grasp- 
ing in his fist a great black bottle, which he is 
shaking desperately, as if to incite the racers to 



48 THE EIFLE, AXE, AND SADDLE-BAaS. 

greater speed. Up rushes the foremost of tlie 
horsemen, clutches "black Betty," giyes her one 
triumphant wave around his head in token of his 
victory, applies her mouth to his mouth, imbibing 
the consequences, -and then returns to our young 
couple, that they may drink their own health and' 
happiness, in the best bald-face whisky the settle- 
ment furnishes. 

And now here are assembled all the neighbors 
from miles around — men, women, children and dogs. 
The men have been amusing themselves with the 
usual athletic sports of the border, flinging the rail, 
hurling the tomahawk, pitching quoits, wrestling, 
running foot and horse races, and shooting at a mark. 
The women are mostly busied about the barbecue. 
A trench has been dug, in one end of which you will 
see the flames blazing, in another the coals smoulder- 
ing. Here the meats are being prepared for masti- 
cation. 

But it is now high noon, dinner-time the world 
over, so think our simple-minded farmers. The 
grand repast is served beneath a rustic arbor, formed 
by leafy branches. Here, upon the puncheon slabs, 
are served bear meat, butfalo meat, venison, wild 
turkey, and, as the daintiest of all the delicacies, 
baked 'possum. For side dishes, you have "big 
hominy," pyramids of corn dodgers, with plenty of 
milk and butter, if the coimtry be far enough 
advanced for .cows. If not, bear's oil must take the 
place. It is used as a sop for bread, as gravy for 
meat, and is pronounced wonderful by those who 
like it. The men draw their hunting-knives from 
their belts, commence the business of carving, using 



THE WEDDING DINNER. 49 

their fingers for forks. Every mother's skirt is 
clutched by her brood of little ones, begging for 
dodger and gravy, while around every hunter, fawn 
and leap his hounds, begging for their share of the 
repast. 

Shall I attempt a description of their personal 
appearance? They are all large, very large, men, 
women, and babies. The men averaging over six feet 
in height, and broad in proportion, are clad in deer- 
skin hunting-shirts, leggins, and moccasins of the same 
material . When a gentleman wishes a pair of stockings, 
he fills his moccasins with dried leaves. Around the 
waist is a belt with a sheath for the hunting-knife, 
and another for the tomahawk. Descending from 
the shoulders are straps supporting the bullet-pouch 
and powder-horn. The head is surmounted by a 
coon-skin cap, the tail of the animal gracefully 
pendent between the shoulders — the only ornament 
uj)on the person masculine. 

But what am I to do with the gear of the ladies ? 
While the fighting is going on, when, the small stock 
of store goods brought from the older settlements has 
been exhausted and there are no stores, before the 
home-made looms can be put in operation, the 
women are obliged to fall back upon the material 
employed by their husbands and sons, and thus 
manufacture their garments from deer-skin. You 
can readily conceive that w^hen a lady has been 
thoroughly drenched in a hard shower, and is drying 
herself before a blazing fire, her garments shall be a 
very tight fit, but now the spinning-jenny and the 
loom are in daily use, and they are dressed in cloth 
of their own making. Copperas, madder, and the 

3 



60 

otlier dyes, have not yet been introduced, wherefore, 
they say, by poetic license, white cloth ; in sooth, it is 
only a dirty brown. Mantua-maldng has not been 
imported from Paris, and, in consequence, the cnt 
and make are of the most primitive description. 
The sleeves resemble miniature corn-sacks, through 
which the hands are thrust; the dresses are gathered 
at the neck, but gathered nowhere else, and fall 
gracefully— or gracelessly — around the person. But 
one youing lady at this frolic, as at all frolics, is the 
cynosure of every beholder. She has prevailed 
upon her father to go a journey of fifty miles to the 
"Falls" — Louisville — to buy her a new dress. It is 
bought and she has it on, but, what catastrophes will 
not ensue when young ladies entrust the purchase of 
their wardrobe to their fathers. The dress is of calico 
— for calico is the velvet and moire antique of the time, 
but it is a furnitm'e calico, of a very large figure, and 
very red. But the old hunters are staring at Iier as if 
their eyes had never greeted such a vision of ravishing 
beauty. The old ladies are winking and nodding, 
and whispering to each other that "that gal's extrava- 
gance will spile the whole family." ]^eed I say 
what the young ladies are doing? Or the young 
gentlemen? Who does not know the power of fine 
dress to breed envy and win attention? 

Here, then, they stand around the hospitable 
board, a healthy, hearty, happy set of people, with- 
out a twinge of neuralgia, or a symptom of dyspep- 
sia in the company. This you would believe, could 
you see them eat. Dinner ended, the second part 
of the programme begins ; and what can this be but 
a dance. Wherefore the old black fiddler is intro- 



A DANCE. 51 

duced, who, after making the inevitable preliminary 
flom'isbes with his bow, bids them choose partners 
and start. Remember that they are dancing as our 
English forefathers danced, on the green sward, in 
the checkered shade. And here I am reminded 
that they are a rough and unsophisticated people, 
for the only styles they are acquainted with are the 
Yirginia reels, jigs, and shake-downs. If you had 
mentioned mazourka, polka, schottische, redowa, 
in connection with dancing, they would have stared 
as if they thought you crazy. In sooth, had 
;they known these figures, I much question their 
adopting them ; for they held it as a primary axiom 
iin domestic morality, that it was the business of 
'every man to hug his own wife, and let other women 
alone, and the province of the lady to submit to that deli- 
cate process only at the arms of her lord, or her lover, 
at farthest. But we, with our superior refinement and 
morality, can afford to practise the styles sometimes 
called fancy — ^more properly affectionate — imported 
from the sinks of European prostitution, while we 
scout as rude and vulgar the borderers and their 
scruples. On they caper, "till the livelong daylight 
fails," when, if not to "the spicy nut-brown ale," they 
betake themselves for recuperation to a cold cut and 
I "black Betty." Through the, thickening darkness, 
blazing pine-knots from fire-stands shed a lurid 
glare, affording light enough to dance by. Thus 
they proceed till daylight, halting in the middle 
watch for another "bite and swig." As the ruddy 
glow steals along the eastern sky, worn-out and bare- 
footed — for moccasins will not bear everything — 
! they hie them home to rest. 



62 THE RIFLE5 AXE, AND SADDLE-BAGS. 

A day or two thereafter, you sliall see every man 
who has been at the party, commg to the "infah-." 
With his rifle on his shoulder, that, if occasion serve, 
he may " drop a deer in his tracks," attended by his 
pack of hounds, who follow him everywhere, toi 
church and funerals, as well as to weddings, our' 
trusty hunter bears along his axe. Keaching the' 
site selected, he finds a group of hardy woodmen ; 
stripped for their work, wielding their axes with 
gigantic strength and dexterous aim. The great 
trees of the forest shiver, groan, and fall with a 
thunderous crash. Logs of the proper length are 
cut and notched; brawny arms lift them to their 
places; clap-boards for the roof are split, and 
puncheons^ are hewed for the floor, and in a trice 
the new house is raised. In the centre of the floor, 
four augur-holes are bored, in which are inserted 
stakes. On these, two puncheons are j)laced, which 
constitute the table. Four other auger-holes are 
bored in one corner of the fcabin, in which are 
inserted four stakes with forked tops. In these are 
laid saplings, on which rest strips of bark, or, in 
their place, buffalo skins are tightly drawn. Dried 
leaves are then collected as a mattress; the upper 
side of the tick being constituted of skin; and 
thus you have bed a;id bedstead. A rude dresser 
is hewn in another corner of the cabin, which shall 
contain the little stock of pottery, tin and iron ware. 
Tln-ee or four three-legged stools — 'to be followed in 



* A puncheoii is made by splitting a log eighteen inches in diameter, 
the hewed side laid uppermost or outermost. They ai^e used for floors, 
doors, benches, &c. 



HOMES m THE WILDERNESS. 5S 

after years by a dozen or twenty more, as necessity 
may require — and, in course of time, a sugar-trough 
for a cradle, complete the furniture of the dwelling. 
At his leism-e, the young man shall arrange a set of 
buckhorns over the door, as pegs whereon to rest his 
rifle ; and construct a loom, that his wife may prose- 
cute her weaving, for she has brought with her a 
spinning-jenny as her dower. The " house is warmed " 
jby means of another party, and our neivly-married 
'pair start upon the sober jog of wedded life. 

Humble indeed were these households of the first 
{settlers. But around these cabin-homes of the 
wilderness, God's angels came to bestow^ their bene- 
dictions. Here are health and labor, frugality and 
I content, chastity and love. From these darkened 
fountains in the forest have gushed the waters which, 
flowing into sunshine, have combined to form the 
majestic river of our national life. 

Tliese men came in obedience to an instinct well- 
nigh equivalent to a heavenly command to subdue 
the land and to replenish it. They came with that 
' unerring sagacity to discover and settle choice lands, 
i which may be taken as a characteristic of Saxondom. 
With stalwart strength, intrepid hearts, high resolves, 
and unconquerable wills, they came to dispossess the 
i red-skins, and claim this valley world as a heritage 
• for civilization. With unconscious prescience, they 
came to win. from battle, self-denial, and toil, estates 
for their families, and an empire for coming genera- 
. tions. They were here for individual freedom ; but 
they felt with that infallible accuracy inherited from 
their English ancestry, that individual fi-eedom could 
j not be attained save by social and civil institutions. 



64 THE EIFLE, AXE, AND SADDLE-BAGS. 

Obedience to severe, yet majestic law, must be 
required; else liberty would degenerate into license, 
feudalism would have a new inauguration, and the 
garden of the world become an Alsatia. These 
hunter-farmers recognized themselves as citizens, 
and labored long and well to lay the foundations 
of coming States. Laws were passed at once and 
duly enforced. Oftentimes it happened that Judge 
Lynch occupied the bench, and that regulators were 
the Jury. How could it be otherwise when the 
nearest constable was five hundred miles away, 
and the only police officer in the country was the 
rifle at the saddle-pommel; when the only court- 
house was the first tree, and the only jail was a rope 
thrown over the lowest branch, the culprit's neck in 
a noose at one end, and strong hands tugging at the 
other. Some of their laws were odd enough, not a 
little resembling the early statutes of ISTew England. 
They had one, for example, that no man should be 
tolerated in the commonwealth, who had not visible 
and honest means of support. There came to the 
town of Washington, Kentucky, a young man, who 
seemed to have nothing to do but to keej) his hands 
warm in his pocket, and his mouth puckered for a 
whistle. Strolling about the town from day to day, 
he was spying out the settlement, that he might, with 
fitting opportunity, begin his nefarious scheme. In 
his coat-pocket was a pack of greasy cards, into the 
meaning and use of which he proposed to initiate the 
young men of the place, and having won their 
money, and corrupted their morals, to pass to other 
places as a missionary of the evil one. Some of the 
old gentlemen of the neighborhood shrewdly suspect- 



JUSTICE m THE BACKWOODS. 65 

ing his intent, warned liim of the prescript npon 
their statute book. But he, as young gentlemen are 
apt to do, esteemed the old men a pack of old fogies, 
and went as before, upon his whistling way. They 
gave him the notice ; he disregarded it ; the penalty 
was upon his own head. A writ was served upon 
him, and he was deposited for safe keeping in the 
jail, or, as they figuratively call it, the jug. Adver- 
tisement is made, a crowd assembles ; he is carried by 
the sheriff into the middle of the public square, mounted 
on a horse-block, put up at auction, and knocked down 
to the highest bidder. The highest bidder is the village 
blacksmith, who, fastening a chain around his leg, 
conducts him to the forge, where he keeps him 
secure, and for three months, from sun to sun, 
inducts him into the craft of blowing and striking. 
The law's stern lesson taught him, our gambling 
gentleman is set at liberty, when he "makes tracks," 
his back upon Kentucky, swearing it the "meanest 
country a white man ever got into." 



56 THE lilFLE, 



III. 

THE SADDLE-BA.GS. 

As these hardy adventurers, bent upon perilous 
enter]3rise, are thrusting themselves into the occu- 
pancy of a new world, I see approaching another 
class, with many traits in common with them; yet, 
many differing. They, too, are of large build, and 
robust strength; they, too, are inured to exposure 
and privation; they, too, have nerves that never 
thrill with fear. Sun and storm have bronzed them; 
hunger, frost, and loneliness are to them familiar 
acquaintances. Gaunt poverty keeps even pace 
with them as they ride, and shall accompany them 
until they reach the last stage of their journey — the 
house appointed for all living. Wherefore are they 
in the wilderness — for they have neither rifles nor 
axes? 

They are generally on horseback, and when they 
are, you may accept the fact ?i^ prima facie evidence 
that the beasts they ride are good ones ; for they are 
great judges of horse-flesh. I have even heard it 
whispered that they are a little dangerous "at a 
trade " — but that, of course, is scandal. 

Their symbol is the saddle-bags, which go with 
them in all their wayfarings — beneath them as they 
ride — upon their arm in walking. In the capacious 



PREACHERS IN THE WILDERNESS. 57 

pockets is snugly deposited their library, consisting 
of the Bible, hymn-book, and, probably, the "Pil- 
grim's Progress," "Paradise Lost," and the "Night 
Tlionghts ;" their few changes of what we shall poetic- 
ally call clean linen ; i. e., very coarse cotton — together 
with such odds and ends as they may chance to own. 

These men are here in obedience to the command 
of him who said, " Go into all the world, and preach 
my gospel to every creature;" in imitation of him 
who " came to seek and to save that which was lost," 
and who went about doing good. They are here to 
do the work of evangelists, and to make full proof of 
their ifiinistry, warning "every man, and teaching 
every man in all wisdom, that they may present 
every man perfect in Christ Jesus." Another wolf is 
there than the grey one of the forest. Shall not the 
flock be fed and folded while the lambs are carried in 
their bosoms ? 

Through the instrumentality of these humble men, 
a cabin, similar to the one already described, but used 
for a widely different purpose, is reared in many a 
settlement. It serves as a school-house and a sanctu- 
ary — symbol of the country's strength and 23urity. 
Unlearned themselves, they were, nevertheless, the 
first patrons of literature and science — founding 
academies and colleges. I have known many a man 
of this class, who could not construct half-a-dozen 
sentences grammatically, yet bestowing half his slen- 
der yearly stipend to establish an institution of learn- 
ingj* Traversing the trackless mazes of the woods, 
they are not seldom greeted by the crack of a rifle, 
and a bullet whistling near their ear from an Indian 
ambuscade. Their journeys take them through 

8'^ 



58 THE KIFLE, AXE, AND SADDLE-BAGS. 

boundless reaches of unmhabited country. The cane- 
brake, the swamp, the moss at the foot of a tree, are 
their only beds for more than half the year. Their 
saddle is their pillow, with no tent but the canopy — 
save as the snow may wind its wintry sheet about 
them. They live by rule. Four o'clock of thoji 
morning finds them stirring. The knee is bent im 
fervent, simple prayer. The soul's health thus cared ' 
for, and the body's welfare commended to an' 
Almighty Friend, the faithful horse, loved as a com- 
panion, hobbled near at hand, claims the next atten- 
tion ; familiarly patted and talked to, he is carefully 
rubbed and curried, if a comb be at hand. Soon as 
the light is strong enough to serve, the little Bible is 
taken from the pocket or saddle-bags, and chapter 
after chapter is studied on the knees, while ofttimes, 
tears course their way down the weather-beaten 
cheeks, bedewing the sacred page. I have seen 
more than one of these volumes, the text-book and 
solace of many a year, with its print so dimmed as to 
be illegible to any eyes but those accustomed to read 
it every day. These men were mighty in the Scrip- 
tures. Here found they panoply and arsenal. Then 
mounting, hymn-book in hand, they start upon their 
trackless way, guiding themselves by the sun, if he 
be visible; by the courses of the streams, or the dif- 
ferent shades and textures of the bark upon the trees. 
The bee's line is not more accurate than their direc- 
tion. ISTever was lover more true to his tryst than 
these men to, their appointments. The houi^for 
meeting is scarce more sure to come than they. 'No 
matter whether the day be Satm-day or Monday, for 
tliey preach on all days alike ; no matter whether the 



WILLIAM BUKKE. 69 

congregation consist of one or a thousand, the service 
is performed, and performed with fervor, impressive- 
ness, and solemnity. They have come to meet the 
exigencies of the country and the time, and they 
never flinch. Over their patriotic countrymen who 
have fallen on the red field of Indian battle, they 
perform the rites of Christian burial. To the lonely 
cabin where sits the broken-hearted widow with her 
brood of helpless orphans, they come to teach the 
doctrines of Jesus and the resm-rection; to tell 
of a Father, who will " never leave them, nor forsake 
them," and of a land where "God shall wipe away 
all tears, and there shall be no more death, neither 
sorrow nor crying." The drunkard is counselled, the 
swearer reproved, all forms of vice admonished, and 
every man warned to "flee the wrath to come, and 
lay hold on eternal life." 'No occasion is omitted, 
no opportunity lost. The man whom the preacher 
meets to-day, may be dead to-morro^7, and "lifting 
up his eyes, being in torment." From behind his 
stool, in the corner of the cabin, or mounted upon a 
stump at the cross-roads, does he beseech men "by 
the love of Christ to become reconciled to God." 

Let the following incident stand as illustrative of 
the character of these men. 

A few months ago, in December, 1855, there died, 
in the city of Cincinnati, a man nearly ninety years 
of age, whose name was William Burke. He had 
been almost in the van of these jDioneer ministers. 
He entered the West when the contest with the 
Indians was at its hottest. He travelled through what 
is now Western Yirginia and l!^orth Carolina, Ten- 
nessee, Kentucky, and Ohio. There was scarce r 



60 THE EIFLE, AXE, AND SADDLE-BAGS. 

settlement in all this vast region where he had not 
preached, or a cabin where he had not prayed with 
the inmates. So poor was he oftentimes, that his 
clothes, as he himself said, ''were patch upon patch, 
and patch above patch, until the patches themselves 
were worn out, and bare-kneed, and bare-elbowed ;" 
without a cent in his pocket, or a friend to give him 
a new garment, he must needs go forward in the ser- 
vice of his master. After three and twenty years of 
um-emitting toil, having experienced hardshijDs and 
suffering beyond description, he lost his voice, and 
was obliged to abandon his vocation. Selling out his 
stock in trade, saddle, bridle, horse, and saddle-bags, he 
found himself in possession of two hundred and thir- 
teen dollars, as the total receipts for his twenty-three 
years' labor. And now let me give you some facts 
from the history of one of my own friends, whom I 
loved well-nigh as a father — one of the noblest men 
that ever trod this globe. He left us nearly six years 
ago. Although not one of the earliest, he was in the 
field at a sufficiently early date to entitle him to the 
name of a pioneer preacher. 

He too was a specimen of Young America, for he 
began to preach at the age of sixteen years. As I 
remember, he had never received three months' school- 
ing in his life. He was remarkably handsome. " For 
fire and twenty years he was called the Apollo of the 
"West — albeit for a good portion of the time Apollo 
in hom^espun. He was one of the gifted sons of 
genius. Henry Clay, who should have been a good 
judge in such matters, pronounced him the most elo- 
quent man he ever heard open his lips. 

I have said he was very handsome, and that in the 



GOOD LOOKS HERETICAL. 61 

esteem of many of his brethren, was equivalent to 
heresy. I have known many well-meaning simple- 
tons, who, to nse their own expression, " couldn't 
abide him because he looked so like a dandy." Many 
of the old brethren of the laity and clergy thought it 
" wasn't in him to be a preacher." Whenever they 
saw him coming towards them with his ingenuous 
face and kingly carriage, their countenances would 
leugthen to a preternatural longitude, and uttering 
what they meant to be a pious groan, they would 
murmur among themselves, " he'll never do." 

There was one old brother, who, while he shared 
this prejudice, nevertheless felt some interest in the 
stripling ; blunted, indeed, must have been that nature 
which refused response to the genero^is spirit of 
my friend. The old gentleman took it upon himself 
to deliver admonitory lectures on the subjects of 
apparel and demeanor, to the candidate for holy 
orders. " Henry, my son," he said, in a gruff, rebuk- 
ing tone, " why don't you try to be like a preacher, 
and look like a preacher? You'll never be worth 
shucks as long as you live." 

" I don't mean anything by it," modestly responded 
the young man — ^never have I known a woman more 
diffident than he was, except in presence of peril, 
where lion was never bolder — " I can't help the way 
I look; I am just the way God made me." 

"ISTo you ain't," responded the senior, "you can 
help it. Dress better, and don't look so much like a 
fop." 

" I have to wear the clothes that are given me ; 
you know I have no money to buy new ones." 

" If that is all," said the old man, " it can soon be 



62 THE EIFLE, AXE, AND SADDLE-BAGS. 

fixed. Will you wear a suit of clothes I'll have made 
for you?" 

" Anything in the world," rejoined the other. 

" Yery well, trust me. I'll make you look like a 
preacher." J 

" I wish you would, with all my heart ; nothing ^ 
would please me better," said the future orator. 

They parted, the young man going to his work, the 
old man to see to the tailoring. At the end of six 
weeks, the appointed time, the young man made his 
aj)pearance. The aged saint, standing in the midst 
of a number of friends whom he had summoned to 
witness' the transformation of his deformed protege 
rubbing his hands in glee, pleased with his anticipa- 
tions of success, pointed to a thicket of bushes, 
behind which the new suit was deposited — for houses 
were small, and the only di'essing-room was the 
" timber." The re-appearance of the young clergy- 
man in his canonicals was impatiently awaited. At 
length, attired in his new habiliments, with manly 
stride and noble person he ap]3roaches. The old gen- 
tleman looks, then stares, unable to believe the evi- 
dence of his senses. He hastens to meet the parson, 
then withdraws a pace or two, and performs a circuit 
round him. Some trick has been played upon him ; 
these are not the clothes he has caused to be manu- 
factured. Eushing up, he turns the young man round 
and round. "Yes, it is the very suit — copperas 
homespun, shad-belly coat, a vest to match, breeches, 
as nearly alike as possible. "Whirling on his heel, his 
countenance expressive of disgust, mortification, and 
contempt, he exclaims, as he marches ofi", " tut, tut, 
boj \ there's no use in the world trying to do any- 



MODESTY AND COUKAGE. 63 

thing with you. You look more like a dandy now 
than ever you did in your life." 

I have said he was a modest man, but a brave one 
too. On one occasion it became needful that he 
should administer a sharp rebuke to some disorderly 
young men in the congregation. These worthies 
swore vengeance, declaring that they would thrash 
him within an inch of his Jife. It was known that 
they intended to waylay him, as he crossed the 
mountain on the morrow, on his way to the next 
appointment. Some of the church-members endeav- 
ored to dissuade him from proceeding on his journey, 
assuring him that the young men who had uttered 
these threats were desperate characters, and that they 
would be sure to make good their word ; and that 
the consequences might be fatal to himself. He 
briefly replied that it was his duty to go, and he 
would go. 

One of his brethren volunteered to bear him 
company. On their way, they stopped to cut stout 
hickory cudgels, with which to defend themselves. 
Approaching a narrow pass on the mountain side, a 
wall of rock on one hand, a precipice on the other, 
the four rowdies were discovered with shirt-sleeves 
rolled up, their hands clubbing their weapons. 

" Four against two ; let's go back" said the church- 
brother. 

" Come on," said the preacher. 

" They'll kill us," replied the other. 

" Go home, then," said the preacher; and keeping 
liis horse in a walk, quietly fixing his commanding 
eye on these four men, bent on mischief, he rode up 
and passed them, while not a man of them seemed 



64 THE EIFLE, AXE, AND SADDLE-BAGS. 

able to raise Ms club. The preacher's companion 
who had tarried behind watching in terror, see- 
ing how rowdyism cowered before manhood, pricked 
his steed, and now came riding np. "That was 
pretty well done," said he. 

" Do you wish to ride with me across the moun- 
tain ?" said the preacher. 

" Yes," answered the other, somewhat abashed. 

"Then fall back and follow; cowards shouldn't 
ride abreast with men." 

In illustration of his nonconformity to clerical 
appearance, take the following : Having occasion to 
traverse Kentucky from Louisville, where he was 
then stationed, to one of the southern counties, he 
stopped, at the end of a hard day's travel, at a lonely 
cabin, where lived a Dutchman and his family. After 
supper mine host, who was as inquisitive as a tin- 
peddler, commenced catechising the stranger, asking 
all manner of questions, such as, " Where did you 
come from ? Where are you going to ? You're a law- 
yer, I suppose ? 'No ? Then you must be a doctor ?" 
To all of which and many more, our friend responded 
as briefly as possible. The bewildered Dutchman at 
length exclaimed, " What are you then ?" 

" A preacher." 

" A preacher !" incredulously exclaimed the old 
Teuton, " What sort of a preacher ? Episcopal ?" 

"]sro." 

^'Presbyterian?" 

" 1^0." 

" What then ?" 

" A Methodist." 

"A Methodist! What, in them clothes? Good 



ACCOMMODATIONS FOR MAN AND BEAST. 65 

Lord ! if I had gone out to shoot a preacher, I would 
never have pulled trigger at you !" 

By way of administering a sound reproof to him 
for being handsome, and looking well in his clothes, 
his superiors sent him one year — the fourth of his 
ministry — to a region of country where it was thought 
he would be broken down, or broken in. He had 
already seen hard service; more than once had he 
ridden at full speed, chased by a pack of yelling 
Indians, their bullets whistling round him like hail. 
He had become familiar with all manner of exposure 
and privation, but it was thought that this circuit 
would put him to the uttermost test. It was a wild, 
mountainous tract in western Virginia, sparsely popu- 
lated by hunters, who were there for the game and 
peltry. 

You may see him riding up some evening to the 
door of a cabin, where he is to lodge, and as it is a pretty 
fair specimen of the houses in the country, you may 
desire a description of it. The cabin is twelve by 
fourteen feet, and one story high. The spaces between 
the logs are chinked and then daubed with mud for 
plaster. The interior consists of one room, one end 
of which is occupied by a fire-place. In this one 
room are to sleep, the man, his wife, the fifteen or 
twenty children bestowed upon them by Provi- 
dence — for Providence is bountiful in this matter 
upon the border — and as the w^oods are full of '^ var- 
mints," hens and chickens must be brought in for 
safe keeping, and as the dogs constitute an important 
portion of every hunter's family, they also take pot- 
luck with the rest. Fastened to a tree near the door 
is a clapboard, upon which is traced, in characters 



66 THE RIFLE, AXE, AND SADDLE-BAGS. 

of cliarcoal, a sentence to the following effect — which 
you may read if yon are keen at deciphering hiero- 
glyphics : " Ahomidation fur man and Beast.^'' 

In this one room the family are to perform 
their manifold household offices. Here their sleep- 
ing, cooking, eating, washing, preaching and hearing 
are to be performed. Amid the driving storms of 
winter, it is of course impossible for our youthful theo- 
loman to transform an old loff or the shadow of a tree 
into a study ; his book must therefore be carried 
into the house, where he is surrounded by a motley 
group. Of course a hunter never swears in bad 
weather ; the lady of the house never scolds ; children 
of all ages never quarrel and raise a row; dogs 
never bark and fight ; nevertheless, you may imagine 
that if our student is able to confine his attention to 
the page, deriving mental nutriment from the lettered 
line, he must possess not a little power of concentra- 
tion and abstraction. He may obtain permission of 
his host to pursue his studies after the rest of the 
family have retired. Lighting a pine knot, he sticks 
it up in one corner of the huge fire-place, lays him- 
self down on the flat of his stomach in the ashes, 
glowing with transport over "the thoughts that 
breathe and words that bum." These are what poets 
call "midiiight oil," and "cloisters pale." 'Not a 
few men have I knowm who acquired a mastery of 
the Latin and Greek tongue, and much valuable 
and curious lore in such "grottoes and caves" as 
these. 

Possibly there may be another apartment in the 
cabin, K so, it is denominated the "prophet's cham- 
ber." You gain access to it by a rickety step-ladder 



67 

in one corner of the cabin. Toiling up this steep 
ascent you reach a loft, formed by laying loose clap- 
boards on the rafters. With dubious tread and care- 
ful steps, you pick your way across the floor. I have 
said the clapboards are loose, and if you are not 
cautious, one end will fly up and the other down, in 
company with which latter you shall be precipitated 
upon the sleepers below. Having reached the oppo- 
site end of the loft, the j)i'ophet's bed is discovered. 
It is a bear-skin, a buftalo-skin, or a tick filled with 
shucks. Having laid him on his couch, our prophet, 
if he be thoughtfully inclined, can study Astronomy 
from his resting-place, through the rifts in the roof; 
and when it rains or snows, he has the benefit of the 
hydropathic treatment, without fee or prescription. 

Many a time Was the bare, bleak, mountain-side 
his bed, the wolves yelling a horrid chorus in his 
ears. Sometimes he was fortunate enough to find a 
hollow log, within whose cavity he inserted his body, 
and found it a good protection from the rain or frost. 

Sitting, one fine summer afternoon, beneath the 
shadow of a noble tree, intently studying his book, he 
heard a rustling in the branches above, then a low 
warning " %oJiist " from some one near at hand, fol- 
lowed by the sharp crack of a rifle. Crashing 
through the branches there falls upon the ground at 
his feet a huge panther. The beast had been crouch- 
ing in preparation for a deadly spring, when a ball 
from the rifle of his hunter host saved his life. 

Once, seated at the puncheon dinner-table with a 
hunter's family, the party is startled by affrighted 
screams from the door-yard. Rushing out they 
behold a great wild cat bearing oft' the youngest 



68 

child. Seizing a rifle from the pegs over the door, 
the preacher raises it to iiis shoulder, casts a rapid 
glance along the barrel, and delivers his fire. The 
aim has been unerring, but too late — the child is 
dead, already destroyed by the fierce animal. 

That same year he had a hand-to-hand fight with a 
bear, from which conflict he came forth victor, his 
knife entering the vitals of the creature just as he 
was about to be enfolded in the fatal hug. 

He must ford or swim mountain torrents as they 
boil and rush along their downward channels, in 
cold weather as in warm. Often he emerged from 
the wintry stream, his garments glittering in the 
clear, cold sunlight, as if they had been of burnished 
steel-armor, chill as the touch of death. During that 
twelvemonth, in the midst of such scenes, he travelled 
on foot and horseback four thousand miles, preached 
four hundred times ; and found on casting up the 
receipts, yarn socks, woollen vests, cotton shirts, and 
a little silver change, that his salary amounted to 
twelve dollars and ten cents. 

Undaunted by the suspicions of his brethren, their 
fears that he would not make a preacher, by the hard- 
ships and perils of the way, he persevered. 

One other incident of his eventful career let me 
relate, as he told it to me himself. He was preach- 
ing in a large country church on a bright Sabbath 
morning. The house was crowded to its utmost 
capacity, the windows were all open, one of which 
was immediately behind the puljDit, overlooking the 
rural graveyard. The preacher was indulging in a 
descri]3tion of the various typical forms and mani- 
festations of the Holy Spirit. "Who that ever heard 



HENRY BIDLEMAN BASCOM. 69 

liim in one of bis liappy moods, does not remember 
the enchaining power of bis oratory ? Spellbound, 
breathless, the audience hnng npon his lips. It was 
the baptism of Jordan. With John they saw the open- 
ing heaven, the Spirit of God in the form of a dove 
nestling npon the Saviour, w^hen silently, suddenly as 
an apparition, a milk-white dove flew through the 
open window at the rear of the pulpit, and nestled on 
the preacher's shoulder. Astounded, he paused ; an 
instant it sat, then rose, and describing a circle around 
his head, away flew the snowy bird to the vernal pas- 
tures and summer w^oods. The effect of this start- 
ling coincidence npon the audience I leave you to 
imagine. 

I have said he persevered. He became a Doctor 
of Divinity, and deserved his degree, which is no 
faint praise in the United States. He became the 
President of a University, and graced the chair he 
filled ; he became a Bishop in the Church of G-od ; 
and a truer, nobler man never trod this continent 
than was Henry Bidleman Bascom. 

These men had the wilderness for a college ; their 
theological seminary was the circuit ; and lessons 
enough in pastoral theology did they get. Their text- 
book was the Bible ; for more than any others that I 
know of, they were men of one book. Their com- 
mentaries and w^orks of exegesis were their own 
hearts, and the hearts of their fellow-men, which 
j:hey prayerfully and devoutly studied. They were 
" workmen that needed not to be ashamed, rightly 
dividing the word of truth." 

As we in colder mood attempt to estimate their 
character, it may seem as if their faith verges upon 



70 THE EITLE, AXE, AND SADDLE-BAGS. 

credulity, their zeal degenerates into fanaticism. 1 
have heard a story which illustrates one portion of 
their character. 

A wayfarer, who for many years had preached in 
the ITorthwestern Territory, after its division into 
States fonnd his operations circumscribed to Indiana. 
Himself and family had subsisted upon the scanty 
pittance allowed them — barely enough to keep soul 
and body together. They had borne their poverty 
and toil without a murmur. Tlie preacher was much 
beloved, tall, slender, graceful, with a winning coun- 
tenance, a kindly eye, where flashed the fire of genius, 
a voice silvery and powerful in speech, sweet as a 
wind-harp in song. As the country began to settle, 
a large landholder, much attached to the preacher, 
knowing his poverty, wishes to make an expression of 
his grateful regard and affection. Wherefore he 
presents him with a title-deed of three hundred and 
twenty acres — a half section of land. The man of 
God goes upon his way with a glad and humble 
heart. Thus he has provision made for his own 
advancing age, and the wants of his rising family. 
In three months he returns ; alighting at the gate, he 
removes the saddle-bags and begins to fumble in their 
capacious pockets. As he reaches the door, where 
stands his friendly host to welcome him, he draws 
out the parchment, saying — 

" Here, sir, I want to give you back yonr title- 
deed." 

""Wliat's the matter?" said his friend, surprised; 
"any flaw in it?" 

"ISTo." 

" Isn't it good land ?" 



VALUE OF A SONG. 71 

" Good as any in the State." 

"Sickly situation?" 

" Healthy as any other." 

" Do you think I repent my gift ? 

" I haven't the slightest reason to doubt your gene- 
•osity." 

" Why don't you keep it then ?" 

" Well, sir," said the preacher, " you know I am 
Irery fond of singing, and there's one hymn in my 
pook, the singing of which is one of the greatest 
omforts of my life. I have not been able to sing it 
with, my whole heart since I was here. A part of it 
'uns in this way: 

" No foot of land do I possess, 
No cottage in the wilderness ; 
A poor wayfaring man, 
I lodge awhile in tents below, 
And gladly wander to and fro. 
Till I my Caanan gain ; 
There is my house and portion fair, 
My treasure and my heart are there, 
And my abiding home." 

" Take your title-deed," he added, " I had rather 
sing that hymn with a clear conscience than own 
America." 

He went his way and sang his song, confiding his 
family to the care of Him who had promised, " I will 
be a husband to the widow, and a father to the father- 
less." They never lacked nor suffered hunger. The 
preacher went to his home on the other side of the 
river long years ago. " I have been young," said the 
Psalmist, " but now I am old ; yet have I never seen 
the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging bread." 



72 THE EIFLE, AXE, AND SADDLE-BAGS. 

These men trusted that what the kingly singer never 
saw, could not be seen by their contemporaries. 
They trusted God, and their faith was counted to them 
for righteousness. 

Their preaching was sometimes dogmatic and pole- 
mic ; but even then it was spiced with pungent, practi- 
cal expostulations. They spake in the idiom of the 
people, they used the words of daily life. If they 
meant anything for you, you would be apt to find it 
out. They may not have been metaphysical, rhetori- 
cal, logical, oratorical, but they spake to the point. 
They lived in a country where men would " pick out " 
a squirrel's eye at a hundred yards, or drive a nail with 
a biillet at seventy-five. They were j)reaching to a 
people who despised ambiguity and circumlocution. 
Their three rules of oratory were — and they were 
good rules — first, never begin till you have some 
thing to say; second, say it; third, quit when yo 
are done. 

Take the following as a specimen of their predileo 
tions. It was a discourse delivered by the Eev. James 
Axley, familiarly known as " old Jimmy," a renowned 
and redoubtable preacher of East Tennessee. It was 
related by Hugh L. "White, for many years a dis- 
tinguished judge in that State, and afterwards a con- 
sj)icuous member of the Federal Senate. 

It was noised through the town of Jonesborougb 
that Mr. Axley would hold forth on the morning of 
the ensuing Sabbath. The famous divine was a great 
favorite — with none more than with Judge White. At 
the appointed hour, the judge, in company with a large 
congregation, was in attendance at the house of prayer. 
All were hushed in expectation. Mr. Axley entered, 



I 



KEPKOOFS. 73 

but with him a clerical brother, who was " put up " 
to preach. The congregation was composed of a 
border population ; they were disappointed ; this was 
not the man they had come to hear, consequently 
there was a good deal of misbehavior. The discourse 
was ended, and Mr. Axley arose. It is a custom in 
the new country, when two or more preachers are 
Ipresent, for each of them to have something to say. 
The people opine that it is a great waste of time, to 
come a long distance and be put off with a short ser- 
vice. I have o'one into church at 8 o'clock in the 

igain until 5 o'clock 
in the afternoon. Short administrations are the 
growth of thicker settlements. 

Mr. Axley stood silently surveying the congrega- 
tion until every eye was riveted. He then began : 

''It may be a very painful duty, but it is a very 
solemn one, for a minister of the gospel to reprove 
vice, misconduct, and sin, whenever and wherever he 
bees it. But especially is this his duty on Sunday 
land at church. That is a duty I am now about to 
iattend to. 

" And now," continued the reverend speaker, point- 
ing with his long finger in the direction indicated ; 
" that man sitting out yonder behind the door, who 
got up and went out while the brother was preaching, 
stayed out as long as he wanted to, got his boots full 
pf mud, came back and stamped the mud off at the 
door, making all the noise he could on purpose to dis- 
turb the attention of the congregation, and then took 
his seat ; that man thinks I mean him. 'No w^onder 
he does. It doesn't look as if he had been raised in the 
jwhite settlements, does it, to behave that way at 



'5 



T4 THE KIFLE, AXE, AND SADDLE-BAGS. 

meeting? Now, my friend,. I'd advise you to learn 
better manners before 3^ou come to church next time. 
But I don't mean him. 

" And now," again pointing at his mark, " that little 
girl sitting there, aboat half way of the house — I 
should judge her to be about sixteen years old — that's 
her with the artificial flowers on the outside of her 
bonnet and the inside of her bonnet ; she has a breast- 
pin on, too (they were very severe upon all super- 
fluities of dress), she that was giggling and chat- 
tering all the time the brother was preaching, so that 
even the old sisters in the neighborhood couldn't 
hear what he was saying though they tried to. She 
thinks I mean her. I'm sorry from the bottom of my 
heart, for any parents tliat have raised a girl to her 
time of day, and haven't taught her how to behave 
when she comes to church. Little girl, you have 
disgraced your parents as well as yourself Behave 
better next time, won't you ? But I don't mean her." 

Directing his finger to another aim, he said, "That 
man sitting there, that looks as bright and pert as if 
he never v/as asleep in his life, and never expected to 
be, but that just as soon as the brother took his text, 
laid his head down on the back of the seat in front 
of him, went sound asleep, slept the whole time, and 
snored; that man thinks I mean him. My friend, 
don't you know the church ain't the place to sleep ? 
If you needed rest, why didn't you stay at home, 
take ofif your clothes, and go to bed? that's the place 
to sleep, not church. The next time you h^ve a 
chance to hear a sermon, I advise you to keep awake. 
But I don't mean him." Thus did he proceed, point- 
ing out every man, woman, and child, who had in the 



JUDGE WHITE SUKPEISED. 75 

glightesi; deviated from a befitting line of conduct ; 
characterizing the misdemeanor and reading sharp 
lessons of rebuke. 

Judge White was all this time sitting at the end 
of the front seat, just under the speaker, enjoying the 
old gentleman's disquisition to the last degree ; twist- 
in«: his neck aronnd to note if the audience relished 
the " down comings " as much as he did ; rubbing his 
hands, smiling, chuckling inwardly. Between his 
teeth and cheek was a monstrous quid of tobacco, 
which the better he was pleased the more he chewed ; 
the more he chewed the more he sj^at, and behold, 
the fioor bore witness to the results. At length the 
old gentleman, straightening himself up to his full 
height, continued, with great gravity : 

" And now I reckon you want to know who I do 
mean? I mean that dirty, nasty, filthy tobacco- 
chewer, sitting on the end of that front seat " — 
his finger meanw^hile pointing true as the needle to 
the pole — " see what he has been about ! Look at 
those puddles on the floor ; a frog wouldn't get into 
them ; think of the tails of the sisters' dresses being 
dragged through that muck." The crest-fallen judge 
averred that he never chewed any more tobacco in 
church. 

I trust enough has been said to afiford you a truth- 
ful and vivid notion as to what these men w^ere. I 
honor them for their chivalric heroism. I revere 
them for their lofty faith, their burning zeal, their 
simple-hearted piety, a practical character that knew 
no limits. I love and bless them, for they w^ere my 
own fathers in the ministry. 

That I have not exaggerated or shot wide of the 



76 THE RIFLE, AXE, AND SADDLE-BAGS. 

mark, let the following extract of a letter from the 
late President Harrison, whose long residence in the 
"West entitled him to speak, bear witness : 

haeeison's testimony. 

Who and what are they? I answer, entirely composed of 
ministers who are technically denominated " Circuit riders," a 
body of men who, for zeal and fidelity in the discharge of the 
duties they undertake, are not exceeded by any others in tlio 
world. I have been a witness of their conduct in tlie Western 
country for nearly forty years. They are men whom no labor 
tires, no scenes disgust, no danger friglitens m the discliarge of 
their duty. To gain recruits for their Master's service they sedu- 
lously seek out the victims of vice in the abodes of misery and 
wretchedness. The vow of poverty is not taken by these men, 
but their conduct is precisely the same as it would have been 
had they taken one. Their stipulated pay is barely sufficient to 
enable them to perform the services assigned them. With much 
the larger portion the horse which carries them is the only ani- 
mated thing which they can call their own, and the contents of 
their valise, or saddle-bags, the sum total of their other earthly 
possessions. 

If within the period I have mentioned, a traveller on the 
western frontier had met a stranger in some obscure way, or 
assiduously urging his course through the intricacies of a taugied 
forest, his appearance staid and sober, and his countenance indi- 
cating that he was in search of some object in which his feelings 
were deeply interested, his apparel plain but entirely neat, and 
his little baggage adjusted with peculiar compactness, he might 
be almost certain that that stranger was a Methodist preacher, 
hurrying on to perform his daily task of preaching to separate 
and distant congregations, and should the same traveller, upon 
approaching some solitary, unfinished, and scarcely habitable 
cabin, hear the praises of the Creator chanted with peculiar 
melody, or the doctrines of the Saviour urged upon the attention 
of some six or eight individuals, with the same energy and zeal 
that he had seen dispayed in addresses to a crowded audience of 



I 



THE WORK OF THE CLERGY. 77 

a populous city, he might be certain without inquiry, that it was 
the voice of a Methodist preacher. 

It is a style of sj)eecli mucli in vogue among cer- 
tain classes of litterateurs and philanthropists to sneer 
at the imbecility and cowardice of the ministry. 
Sydney Smith's characterization of some of his own 
fraternity, " decent debility," is indiscriminately ap- 
plied as a jnst description of the entire body in this 
country. I have heard the question propounded by 
a famous orator, and it was greeted by deafening 
cheers, "What are the forty thousand pulpits of 
America doing ? What have they ever done for the 
cause of human progress?" Ask the school-houses 
and universities of Kew England. Were not the 
clergy their architects ? did they not lay their foun- 
dations and build their walls ? Ask the thousand 
agencies in operation for ameliorating the condition 
of the suffering and destitute, for reclaiming the vic- 
ious and degraded, for saving the abandoned and lost. 
Have not the clergy devised them and put them into 
execution ? Ask the public conscience and the pri- 
vate sense, which are every generation growing clearer 
in their recognition of right and truth, the morals of 
business,' society, and domestic life ; the standards of 
which every decade are becoming more and more 
elevated. If the clergy have not been the largest 
contributors to these benign results, tell me the names 
of those who have ? Whose counsels and words of 
solace have smoothed and softened the couch of pain? 
Whose hymns have kindled the light of immortality 
in the glazing eye ? Whose voice of prayer has been 
as a staff upon which the departing soul leaned as it 



78 THE RIFLE, 

went down into the dark floods of death ? And who, 
when there was a vacant chair by the fireside, and a 
desolate room in the house which it well-nigh broke 
the heart to enter, came to tell of Him, who in Beth- 
anj said, " I am the Kesnrrection and the Life ?" 
Measure me the power of the Sunday-school, the 
influence of pastoral visiting, the might of the spoken 
word and of the secret prayer, and estimate their force 
in the aggregate of our national life. Because their 
influence is like that of the dew, silent, or as the 
shining of the sun, familiar, men fail to recognize and 
note it. Match me their self-denial, exhibited in 
obscure toil, unappreciated labor, simple-hearted, 
ceaseless efforts to do good, which get no sympathy 
except from God? Match me their tireless zeal and 
unflagging patience, their offerings upon the altar of 
country and humanity from the ranks of pseudo-phi- 
lanthropy, whose God is reform, whose evangel is 
destruction, whose battle-cries are curses? 

But if the country east of the Alleghanies fails to 
give satisfactory answer to this question, then go and 
receive it in the cabins of the "West. See the glorious 
structure of a Christian civilization rising upon the 
soil of the prairie land, and take it as an attestation 
of what the old preachers did for the cause of human 
progress. Although they were not the only laborers, 
without them it never could have been reared. 

Have you seen that valley world in its wild luxu- 
riance and glory, with its mountain barriers at east 
and west, standing as sentinels to guard it from unlaw- 
ful approach, with its chain of gigantic lakes upon 
the north, whose wedded waves lift up their nuptial 
salutation to the ocean in Niagara's roar, and on the 



THE VISION OF JOHN FITCH. 79 

soiitli a tropic sea to wasli its coast, traversed from 
north to soutli by a river unmatched among the 
I streams of earth, sweej)ing as a royal conqueror 
j along, receiving tribute from many a far province and 
I distant empire ? Have you seen it with its illimitable 
reaches of corn and cotton as they ripen to fill the 
mouths of the world, and keep its back from naked- 
ness ? Have you seen its inexhaustible mines of coal, 
iron, lead, and copper ; its quarries of marble and 
fields of sugar? Have you seen the husbandman 
leading the merchant, the capitalist, and the manu- 
facturer by the hand, bidding them possess this rich 
domain, and enjoy it? 

Upon a noble bluff of the Ohio river did the 
dreamer, John Fitch, first behold the vision of steam 
applied to navigation. Here is the prophecy of the 
seer receiving its amplest fulfillment. Here is that 
mightiest vassal of man's mechanical genius working 
its sublimest results. 

Here are fourteen sovereign States, with populous 
and thriving cities, almost the product of Aladdin's 
Lamp, with busy hordes of growing millions, with 
steamboats, railroads, magazines and warehouses 
unnumbered, with mineral, agricultural, and commer- 
cial wealth beyond our power to estimate. 

Here is society starting on a higher plane than it 
has ever travelled, and man girding himself for a 
grander task than he has ever wrought. Woman, at 
home almost for the first time, the sacredness of her 
nature ensured by the sanctity of her position, infancy 
at play, cliildhood at school, all alike greeted by the 
hallowed beam of the Sabbath; and all invited to 
the porch and altar of prayer. These attest the glory 



80 THE EIFLE, AXE, 

of the land; these promise what its future shall 
be. 

Fifteen years ago I stood in the village of Chicago. 
It was a miserable, " sunken " hamlet. Ten years 
ago I was there again. It had grown, yet was any- 
thing but a promising place. Six months ago I was 
there again. I found a city of a hundred thousand 
inhabitants. Hackmen and omnibus-drivers, rascally 
even as New York can boast ; hotels so crowded that 
beds covered the floors of the parlors and all spare 
rooms ; landlords as impudent and insulting as prosper- 
ity and vulgarity could make them ; houses as preten- 
tious in appearance, and snobbish in furniture, as any 
in Fifth Avenue ; a population gone mad with money. 
I found a city which was a depot for thirty railroads, 
and yet that but three years ago had not a solitary 
line of iron bars entering it. I saw the greatest entre- 
pot for grain in the world. I saw clear-headed, great- 
hearted men working for the mental, social, moral, 
and spiritual elevation of the masses. I saw a theatre 
for heroic ambition and god-like attributes to exer- 
cise themselves, withal such as the world has seldom 
had. 

I saw the State of Illinois, the adopted State of 
my boyhood, the scene of my early ministry, its 
population doubling in five years, the value of its 
real estate doubled in two. 

And now remember, that five and seventy years 
ago the whole region west of the Alleghanies 
was a wilderness, battled for and held, against Jthe 
combined powers of the British government, the 
painted savages, and the wild beasts, by scarcely a 
hundred armed men of the American breed. As 



81 

barbarity and fate thinned their ranks, recruits were 
g'ained. Tears, blows, privations, hardships, toil 
and blood, did these men pay down as the ransom 
for this goodly heritage. The land is ours in virtue of 
Ithe price. We and the future owe the noblest 
jdomain upon which the sun now shines to the valor, 
the patience, the fortitude, the zeal and Christian love 
J)f the heroes of the rifle, axe, and saddle-bags. 



4* 



SONGS IN THE NIGHT; 



OK, 



THE TRIUMPHS OF GENIUS OVER BLINDNESS. 



SONGS IN THE NIGHT ; 



OR, 



THE TRIUMPHS OF GENIUS OVER BLINDNESS. 



Caee, with its microscopic eye, magnifies our petty 
troubles, and a complaining murmur becomes the 
ordinary tone of voice. As years draw on, routine 
robs existence of its primal freshness ; and common- 
place, accepted as a destiny, lays on us 

*' A weight heavy as frost and deep almost as life." 

I am not familiar with the expression of the human 
face divine ; but from what little I have been able 
to catch of it, I should say its prevailing tone when 
in repose, is one of dissatisfaction and discontent. An 
ear that has become practised and delicate through 
necessity in interpreting the moods of mind by the 
inflections of the voice, detects on every hand in these 
most subtle exponents of character, the presence of 
weariness and languor. The world freights us with 
its burdens, and we bear them, for the most part, at 

85 



86 SONGS IN THE NIGHT. 

best with a dogged indifference. The spirit hath lost 
its romance : the glorj and the dream have disap- 
peared from our universe ; utihtarianism scouts the 
ideal as a vagarj, and we plod through the cold, 
unpoetic earth, saddened and heavy laden, ofttimes 
longing for the rest of the last silence. 

I know not a more benign office than the ministry 
of cheerfulness, nor one more needed. 

Will you suffer me then to read you a lesson this 
evening — a lesson of content — strength and hope 
drawn from the story of those whose lot has been far 
more drear and dismal than your own ? Such have 
been, who have not found the world a workhouse for 
vagrants and culprits ; nor a hospital tenanted by pes- 
tilence and helpless misery ; nor yet a Potter's Field 
for the burial of paupers ; nor an amphitheatre for 
gladiatorial exhibitions ; nor a tavern for drunken 
revelry, followed hard by deadly despair ; nor a Cor- 
so in carnival, where giddy folly and masquerading 
mirth are bought by a long Lent of vigil, fast, and 
tearless self-torture. 

Such have been, who have found the world a system 
of nice adjustments and beneficent balances, where 
hearty labor receives its reward, and patient waiting 
brings the watcher a priceless boon ; where infirmity 
finds amplest compensation ; where eternal laws, in 
their silent majesty, are enforcing order, restoring 
chaos to harmony and bringing out of evil, good. 

Such have been — affliction could not subdue them, 
nor darkness overwhelm them. Would that the cho- 
rus of their full voices from their historic heights 
might fall upon our ears with such stirring power that 
we should be roused fi'om lethargy and sloth to walk 



BEAUTY AJSTD EFFECTS OF LIGHT. 87 

our way, however rugged, up to tlie mountain sum- 
mits, where for all the valiant are crowns and robes 
and palms of victory. 

Who in fitting strains shall sing the praise of light ? 
It trembles as it flows in sympathetic currents through 
the deepening dusk from the sweet star of evening, 
herald of that pomp of worlds which darkness alone 
reveals, 

" Piles of crystal light, 
A glorious company of golden streams, 
Lamps of celestial ether burning bright, 
Suns lighting systems with their joyous beams." 

At dawn it frets and glows along the eastern sky with 
its grey hue, and then its purpling or its crimson 
blush. At the hush of summer mid-day, in country 
places, it seems to flood the firmament and earth with 
a silent sea of glory. Behind the retiring storm, it 
builds across the heavens the triple arch of beauty, 
not in token of the tempest's victory, but in pledge 
that floods and winds shall no longer be triumphant. 
At the end of the day's circuit, it gathers the clouds 
for the pageantry of sunset, arrays them in their 
thousand liveries of dazzling, softening radiance, and 
when the bridegroom clad in amber robes is gone, 
sends them to sleep, or to float beneath a star- wrought 
canopy. In the still depths beneath the troubled sea 
it works its strange and silent alchemy, and the 
worthless oyster becomes a pearl of price. It en- 
shrines itself in a pebble, and thenceforth men call 
that pebble " the mountain of light." It is the apoca- 
lypse of the universe. And when you would render 
I to the intellect the loftiest thought of God, you say 
! that he is Light, and in Him is no darkness at all. 



88 SONGS IN THE NIGHT. 



4 



But why witli my poor words do I seek to tell its 
praise, when those of a master are ready to om- 
purpose ? 

" Hail, holy light, offspring of Heaven, first-born, 
Or of the eternal co-eternal beam ; 
May I express thee unblamed ? since God is light, 
And never but in unapproached light. 
Dwelt from eternity, dwelt then in thee. 
Bright effluence of bright essence increate ; 
Or hear'st thou rather, pure, ethereal stream, 
"Whose fountain, who shall tell ? Before the sun, 
Before the Heavens thou wert, and at the voice 
Of God, as with a mantle, didst invest 
The rising world of waters, dark and deep, 
Won from the void and formless infinite !" 



On the other hand, consider its complement — th^ 
most complex and delicate of our organs, with its . 
lenses, coats and humors, constituting the brain/s-. 
mouth, to drink in the ceaseless tides of knowledge ;' 
its receptacle, in which are garnered the varied and 
combined impressions of the outer world. Wonderful 
and fearful organism, the human eye, upon whose 
retina of a pin's head size is mirrored, in exactest pro- 
portion, the scope of the firmament and the reach of 
the earth, with all the objects, from greatest to least, 
which they contain ! What fountains of benediction 
are opened, through its magic spell, to the sons of 
men ! Yet, there are those to whom its exercise is 
an inscrutable mystery ; to whom the light hath ever 
been a stranger. The daily forms of vision, to you 
so dull and common-place, would by them be prized 
above the wealth of empires. The ruddy glow of the 
hearth-side, the friend's response to an uttered thought, 



THE EYE. by 

:he deep emotion, wliicli telegraphs its signal to the 
ijheek, the glance of unspeakable affection, which 
peams in the eye of wife or child, amid honsehold 
bares, and joys, the sympathy, which "is our human 
oature's highest dower," lending its divine expression 
to the face of clay — all these to them are only names, 
Signifying well-nigh nothing. 

Yet have I never seen or read of a morbid or 
unhappy blind man. A tranquil hope, an assurance 
imparting quiet animation, renders tolerable this great 
Calamity. Amid the trials of their lot, the ample 
resources of our nature, latent and undreamed of in 
ordinary life, vindicate the blessed compensations 
^hich attest the government of love. 

»* Thus are God's ways vindicated ; and at length, we slowly gain, 
^s our needs dispel our bhndness, some faint glimpses of the chain 
kvhich connects the earth with heaven, right with wrong, and good 

with ill- 
Links in one harmonious movement." — 

The literature of this subject is far more copious 
than one who had not made it a branch of special 
I inquiry would imagine. I need not seek to pierce 
the mists of antiquity, and lay bare the deeds of those 
to whom Milton so touchingly alludes^ nor sometimes 
forget — 

" Those other two equalled with me in fate, 
So were I equalled with them in renown — 
Bhnd Thamyris and blind Maeonides, 
Tiresias and Phineas — prophets old " — 

tearing from them the mythologic mantle, with which 
the Hellenic imagination invested them. 



90 SONGS IN THE NIGHT. 



I 



JSTor would space serve to detail the lives of Diodotu 
— Cicero's preceptor in geometry and Greek philoso 
phj — to whose excellence and learning the orato; 
renders his grateful tribute, nor of Didymus, the mos 
famous man for learning in Alexandria in his time— 
(the 4th century) — the instructor of St. Jerome — th( 
repute of whose wisdom and sanctity attracted thi 
stern hermit, St. Anthony, from his desert home ; no^' 
of Democritus the Grecian sage, who is said by som( i 
to have put out his eyes that he might prosecute hi{ 
speculations to greater advantage. 'Nor yet, may 1 
linger to detail the struggles and successes of Scapi- 
nelli, who stood pre-eminent among his Italian con- 
temporaries for genius and learning, filling the chaiyi 
of poetry and eloquence in the universities of Pisa, 
Modena, Bologna, and who contributed as much 'as 
any man of the period to the revival of learning ; nor 
of Hulderic Schoenenbergen, a celebrated German 
scholar and professor of the Oriental languages and 
literature ; nor of ISTicasius de Yoerda, and Mchola^^ 
Bacon— both gentlemen of the :N"etherlands— who by. 
their erudition acquired and deserved the degree of/ 
doctor of the canon and civil laws ; nor of the Counii 
de Pagan, father of the modern science of fortification. 
Time would fail me to speak of Francis Salinus, a 
Spanish musician ; or of John Sinclair, an English 
performer; or of Dr. Blacklock, a man of letters ; 
or of Anna Williams, a Welch poetess, and proteg^e^ 
of Dr. Johnson; or of John Wilson, whose memory : 
seems to have been as marvellous as Magliabecchi's 
own ; or of Holman, the traveller, who made a circuit 
of the earth, visiting nearly all the places of interest, 
of which he has given agreeable descriptions in his 



[j EMINENT BLIND MEN. 91 

i! 

3oks ; or of hosts of others, who, although with 
irkness and with dangers compassed round, have yet 

on distinction in their respective spheres, and shown 
[)w man can triumph with such fearful odds against 

m. 

My 4esire is to make special mention of a few, who 

e entitled to our regard and admiration, by the 
Joble and inspiring lessons they have taught. 

Euler, the most eminent European mathematician 
■f the last century, lost his sight by too strenuous 
'pplication to his studies, at the age of fifty-nine, 
rndaunted, however, by this calamity, which would 
ave paralyzed most men's energies, he prosecutes 
dth changeless purpose, his scientific inquiries and 
alculations. From the unbroken gloom issued a 
umber of his most remarkable works ; among them 
is elements of algebra, a new theory of the moon's 
lotions with tables, which latter are considered by 

LOse best prepared to judge, a prodigy of constant 

dustry and unflagging patience. Cheerful to a pro- 
verb, his kindly nature shed light upon all who came 

ithin his circle. 

Nicholas Saunderson was born in the village of 
lurston, Yorkshire, in the year 1682. At the age of 
ix months, he lost not only his sight by an attack 
►f the small pox, but even his eyes, which were 
iischarged in abscesses. The father's heart softened 
|o tenderness toward the afflicted child, and notwith- 
standing he was only a poor excise officer, with nar- 
row means, he determined to do all in his power, to 
place the advantages of a superior education at the 
[disposal of his son. Accordingly, at an early age 
the boy was sent to school in the neighboring vil- 



SONGS m THE NIGHT. 



lage of Pennistoun. Here he made astonishing pn 
gress, not only in English but also in Latin an 
Greek, surpassing all his fellows in rapidity of acqu: 
sition, as well as in avaricious retention of his store; 
He early became so apt a Latin scholar, that he wa 
ever after able to speak and write it as fluently an 
correctly as the English ; and so fuU and accurate 
was his acquaintance with the Greek, that he listener 
to the reading of books in that tongue with as eas; 
and perfect a comprehension as if written in the vei 
nacular. Unfortunately, the method adopted by hi 
preceptor for the instruction of this remarkable pupi 
has not been preserved to us. 

The father's circumstances becoming more strait 
ened, it was deemed necessary to remove the bo^ 
from^ school. Desiring to make such amends as la] 
within liis reach for the privation thus imposed— fa 
the boy had shown an insatiate craving for knowledge 
—the father gave him his first lessons in arithmetic 
JSTeighboring gentlemen proffered their services Ui 
teach him algebra and geometry. Ere long the masa 
tershad nothing left to teach; for it was discovereC( 
that great as was the lad's aptitude for the languages,^ 
his capacity for the science of numbers was yet 
greater. Through the eyes of others, he studied the 
works of Diophantus, Archimedes and Euclid, in th^i 
original. ^ 

He was now three and twenty years of age, buiu 
without a profession or honorable means of livelihood.! 
What shall he do ? Led by a dog must he take his 
stand by the roadside to beg of the passers-by, or witl: 
staff and wallet, trudge a weary way telling his pite- 
ous tale from door to door, that the sight of his in- 



II 



NICHOLAS SAUNDERSON. 93 

imitj may move the beholder to an ahns ; because 
([jd's sunshine is shut out from him ? Must the blind 
ijan be an object of commiseration without a s^Dhere 
(j independent activity, cut off from all the noble 
rjcatious of life, doomed to the dole of charity and 
te weakening voice of compassion? Tliougli his 
lirden be a heavy one, shall his only business be to 
I cite its weight, and to disgrace existence by com- 
|aint? For the sightless man, as for every other, 
1 ere is ennobling work to do, and noble wages attend 
I e doing. Berel't as he is, is he not too a man ? No 
pnsioner upon others' bounty will Nicholas Sauuder- 
sn be, if he can help it. Where there is a will to 
^ork, God provides the w^ay. A fellow of Christ's 
• ollege, Cambridge, visits Thurston about this time; 
.^ars of the blind prodigy, but cannot credit the 
:|port. He comes to see him for himself, and finds 
at the half had not been told. Struck by Saunder- 
n's acquirements and accom]3lishments, the collegian 
vites him to the university; The invitation is 
jcepted. The other fellows, interested in the story 
• their companion, vote the blind man chambers, 
cess to their library, and the use of their eyes in 
mailing himself of its treasures. Moreover, arrange- 
ents are made for Saunderson to give a course of 
ictures. The subject selected is optics; Sir Isaac 
ewton's Principia had just been published ; but the 
ork of the great philosopher w^as not duly appreci- 
ted, even by scholars. Among the very first to hail 
id estimate the immortal work was our blind lecturer, 
ho used it as the basis for his prelections, thereby 
oing as much as any other man in England to intro- 
|uce it into general favor. Curiosity attracted 



94: 



SONGS IN THE NIGHT. 



crowds, to hear what a man who had never see 
could say concerning light and vision. The gape ( 
idle wonder was exchanged for the tribute of applaus( 
So ample and exact was the lecturer's comprehensio: 
of his subject, so admirable his method of treatment: 
his luminous style, his agreeable, unostentatious mar 
ner, that the multitude which came to stare, remains 
to learn. The course of lectures was a success ; hones 
bread was earned by honest toil; the blind man had 
found his vocation. 

Some years after this, the eccentric William Whig 
ton. Sir Isaac Newton's successor in the Lucasiai 
chair of mathematics at Cambridge, was ejected fron 
his dignity. Newton was still alive, and was consulte( 
as to the proper person to fill tlie place. His choic( 
fell on Saunderson. The nomination was heartilv ac 
cej^ted by the university. But it was necessary tha 
a special order should be issued by the crown, t( 
authorize the conferring the degree of M. A. on i 
non-graduate. The heads of colleges presented th( 
petition, which was graciously answered by tht 
king ; and our blind friend, at the age of nine-and 
twenty, was inducted into the office, which had beer 
rendered illustrious by the discoverer of gravitation, 
Nor was the honor unwortliily bestowed. Saundersor 
did credit to the chair which had been filled bj 
Newton. 

l^ienceforth he devoted himself to the service of 
his pupils, both as their instructor and companion. 
His labors, as a preceptor, were diversified by the 
composition of several mathematical works, whicL' 
took a high rank among books of their class, and 
also by the invention of apparatus for his mechanical 



REMARKABLE SENSE OF HEARING. 



95 



^tirsiiits. Maintaining an tinclieckered cheerfulness, 
[s. animated conversation and large sympathies made 
m the soul of every circle in which he chanced to 



bve. 



His other senses, and. those intellectual faculties 

Ihich seem to lie next the senses, afforded him 

almost ample substitution for eyesight. Tlie 

.o hearing and delicate touch of the bhnd have 
^ssed into an adage. These Saunderson possessed in 
leir highest perfection. The sound of his footfall in 

room^enahled him to form a closely proximate 
otion of the dimensions and character of the apart- 

tent. Having once crossed a threshold, so distinct 
as his individualization of every locality, that he 
'ould always know it again, even after the lapse of 
jany years. The reverberation of his tread enabled 
dm to judge with wonderful accuracy as to the char- 
acter of objects from five to twenty yards distant. 
:hus he was able to distinguish a tree from a post at 
he distance of five yards ; of a fence from a house 
^t fifteen or twenty yards. From my own experi- 
ence I have never been able to decide, nor am I able 
[o state upon the testimony of others deprived of 
[ight, whether this intelligence be derived through 
the ear, or through the delicate nerves of the face, 
isrhich, thrilling through the vibrations of the atmos- 
[:)here, receive and impart to the brain sensations 
Unnoticed by those who use their eyes. I am, how- 
ever, strongly inclined to the opinion that there is 
such a refined susceptibility of the skin and nerves, 
as to amount almost to a supplemental sense. What- 
iever may be the ground for this opinion, it is certain 
that Saunderson was conscious of objects, the per- 



SONGS IN THE NIGHT. 



ception of which bj a blind man will seem quite 
incredible to many. It is related upon good authority 
that when out in the garden with his pupils, they 
making observations of the heavenly bodies, he was 
able to tell quickly and certainly as they, when a 
cloud obscured a star or hid the disk of the sun. 
^ Though a rayless gloom encompassed him, he shed 
light upon the path of others. His ringing laugh 
it did one good to hear. Constant industry gave dig- 
nity to his days— to his nights, repose. Deprived of 
• the imperial sense, he bore his loss with fortitude, and 
performed his part with courage ; and when scarcely' 
past the noon of life, went down to the grave lamented 
by all who knew him. 

^ One can readily imagine that a man destitute of 
vision, through necessity and practice should come to 
great readiness and power in the combination of 
numbers. Such of the blind as have been moderately 
endowed with capacity, and have been persevering 
in ^ their efforts, have almost invariably shown great 
skill ^ in the mathematics. Simply as regards dis- 
tinction and great attainment in the pure science, I 
know not why its disciples might not as well all be 
bHnd. But when a man with darkened orbs passes 
from the realms of abstraction into nature, to become 
a student of her marvels, to observe her cunning arts, 
to note and explain her mysteries, he sets himself a 
task, the performance of which seems to be hopeless. 
Such was the province selected by Francis Huber, a 
Genevese born about 1750. At the age of seventeen, 
he lost his sight by gutta serena. At first his misfor- 
tune threatened to crush him, because he had lost 
not only the light of the outer world, but as he feared, 



FRANCIS HUBEK. 97 

e liglit of his inner life — the woman he loved, 
rfhe daughter of a Swiss syndic, Marie Aimee Lullin, 
ad not only station, but beauty, intelligence, wit, 
nd accomplishments. Many were the suitors who 
ijlironged around her, and the father was bitterly op- 
posed to her union with the blind youth ; but what is 
parental hostility or toil, or privation to a generous wo- 
I Qan, when to the throb of affection is added the claim 
ff sympathy ? His infirmity insured him the prize, 
md that won, he was made ha]3py for life. During the 
|iorty years of their married life, her love deepened 
ind strengthened, her devotion knew not an hour's sus- 
I pension. She was his reader, his secretary, his obser- 
ver. During the wars, she would make him aware 
[)f the position of the armies by sticking pins in the 
'Inap, to. denote the different bodies of troops. When 
they came into a strange locality she would arrange 
a ground plan that he might become familiar with the 
features through the touch. At her death he said he 
had never before known the pressure of his misfortune. 
During his lifetime he used to say, " my blindness is 
not so much of a calamity after all. But for it I 
'never could have known how much a man can be 
beloved. Moreover," he would add, " to me my wife 
is always young, fair, and pretty ; there are no grey 
hairs, crow's feet, or wrinkles, and that is a great 
I matter." 

i Ruber's father was a man of sprightly intellect, 
I and brilliant conversation, with a decided predilec- 
' tion for natural history. These traits were inherited 
by the son. His taste for natural history was con- 
firmed by the study of such works as fell in his way. 
Tlie treatises of Eeaumer and Bonnet upon the bee, 

5 



SONGS IN THE NIGHT. 






deeply interested liim in that wonder of the inse( 
world. He commenced his observations to verif 
some statements which he had read, and then to fi. 
some blanks which had been left by other naturalist! 
His habitual residence in the country was favorabL 
to this pursuit, and thenceforth his life was devoted t<i 
it. 

He carried on his observations through the eyes o: 
his wife — of a faithful servant whom he trained fo 
the purpose, and subsequently of his son. Hissagac 
ity directed their attention to points which they ha< 
overlooked ; his intelligence suggested new method 
of inquiry, whilst his imaginative conception of th 
whole subject was so clear and precise, that he wa 
able to detect the slightest error, and suggest th( 
means of remedy. " I am much more certain<of wha 
I declare to the world than you are," said he, one day ' 
to a friend, " for you publish what your own eyei , 
only have seen, while I take the mean among man] 
witnesses." The publication of his first observation! 
appeared in 1792 in the form of letters to Col. Bon 
net under the title of " JSTouvelles Observations sui; 
les Abeilles.' This work made a strong impressiol>i 
upon many naturalists, not only from the novelty of 
its facts, but from their rigorous exactness, and th( 
amazing difficulty which the author overcame witl 
so much ability. But his investigations were neithei 
relaxed by the flattering reception of his first publi- 
cation, which might have been sufficient to gratify hiF 
self-love, nor even by his separation from his faithfu? 
servant. 

The origin of the wax was at that time a point is 
the history of bees much disputed by naturalists. By 



I 



HIS INVESTIGATIONS IN BEES. 99 

Isome it was asserted, though without sufficient proof, 
that it was fabricated by the bee from the honey, 
puber, Tvho had ah-eady happily cleared up the ori- 
gin of the propolis, contirmed this opinion with re- 
l^pect to the wax, by numerous observations ; and 
showed very particularly (what baffled the skill of 
ill naturalists before him) how it escaped in a 
aminated form from between the rings of the abdo- 
toen. 

During the course of his observations with Bernens 

[his servant), his w^ife and sons for assistants, he insti- 

uted laborious researches to discover how the bees 

uild their storehouses. He followed step by step 

he whole construction of those wonderful hives, 

hich seem by their perfection, to resolve the most 

^elicate problems of geometry ; he assigned to each 

jlass of bees, the part it takes in this construction, 

md traced their labors from the rudiments of the 

prst cell, to the completed perfection of the comb. He 

made known the ravages whicii the sphinx atrcypos 

produces in the hives ; he made ingenious inquiries 

respecting the locality and history of the bee's senses ; 

be discovered that they consume oxygen gas like other 

nimals, and how, by a particular motion of their 

ings, they renovate the atmosphere in the hive. 

Since the days and brilliant achievements of Huber, 

aturalists have not been able to add any consider- 

ble discovery to the history of bees. The second 

volume of his observations was published in 1814, and 

was edited in part by his son. 

But his valuable contributions to science were not 
the only tributaries to his fame. As a writer he pos- 
>feessed more than ordinary merit. The elegance of 



100 SONGS IN THE NIGHT. 






his style, brilliant with the light of imaginatioiii 
leads us to infer that he might liave been a poel 
as well as naturalist. In the various relations of 
life he displayed such sweetness of temper as mad^- 
him beloved by all his large circle of friends. He 
spent the evening of his life at Lausanne, under the 
care of his daughter Madame de Molin. 

Huber retained his faculties to the last. At the 
age of eighty-one, in a letter to one of his friends, hec; 
writes thus : " There is a time when it is impossiblei' 
to remain neglectful ; it is when separating gradually^ 
from those we love, we may reveal all that esteenr i 
tenderness and gratitude have inspired us with? tol 
ward them." He further adds: " Kesignation and i 
serenity are blessings which have not been refused." 
He wrote these lines on the 20th of December, 1831^ 
and on the 22d he was no more. He died without 
pain or agony, while in the arms of his daughter. 

There is another name too honorable to be omitted 
from our list; I mean that of Augnstin Thierry, the 
great French historian, of whose death we hear, as 
these pages are printed. His life and labors teacMi 
a double lesson ; of patience and happiness underi 
heavy aiSiction, and the other, hardly less worthy, of 
the pervading power of well-directed philosophic 
study and mental activity. Thierry was only about i 
fifteen, a youth in college, when from perus-^- 
ing the historic writings of Chateaubriand audi 
the quasi-historic writings of Walter Scott, and'l 
especially, as it is said, from the influence of Chateau- 
briand's noble description of the desperate struggle'; 
in the Batavian swamps between the Franks fighting'; 



AUGUSTIN THIERRY. 101 

for tlieir freedom and tlieir Roman invaders, his mind 
and pm-poses received a direction and impulse so 
abiding, tliat they lasted through a lifetime of labor, 
lifter a year or two of 'varied and miscellaneous 
jiterary industry, he plunged into a wearisome series 
j)f investigations among mediaeval manuscripts and 
tecords, jDursued uninterruptedly up to 1828, in which 
i^ear the result appeared in the magnificent " History 
^f the Norman Conquest in England " — and in the 
OSS of the writer's eyesight. This work was 
he proclamation of a new e^^och in French his- 
orj. In it Thierry made the first adequate presen- 
ation of the theory which he had learned from his 
rreat masters, and of the practice which he had 
)ursued imder it, in his obscure and profound research- 
!S. He dealt with the third estate^ the mass of the 
)eople, so universally ignored in the formal histories 
)f all time, or only emerging now and then in some 
uch frantic and horrible shape of blind brutal mad- 
less as the insurrections of the Jacquerie in France 
md of the peasantry in Germany ; ignorant, helpless 

Iti'uggles of instinct, stimulated by unendurable and 
tameless oppressions, bloodily beaten down again by 
he mailed barons and knights into the utter darkness 
md misery of their serfdom. Among these forgotten 
md wretched masses, Thierry found the real nations 
f the time ; here he found heroism and virtue equal 
nd superior to that of titled lord and gay lad}'- ; and 
hese humble and often unarmed men he lifted to the 
igh place which was theirs of right. Thus he revo- 
lutionized the method of historical writing ; and with 
''}, free and strong hand made a place for the national- 
ties now recognized as the truest and most real ; the 



102 SONGS IN THE NIGHT. 

multitudes of private citizens, wliose daily liv' 
whose daily little comforts or privations, whose small 
wealth or poverty, gain or loss, happiness or sorrow, 
do in fact constitute the life and movement of the 
nation, to a degree that leaves the schemings of poli- 
ticians, the temporary eminence of a ruler, the huge 
vain-glory of a successful soldier, alike contemptible 
and ridiculous. 

In the same direction Thierry has been laboring 
Btedfastly and rapidly ever since. From the year 
182T he has dictated to an amanuensis; and under 
his terrible deprivation has made large and valu- 
able contributions to history. Still working, he 
gradually lost the use of all his limbs except his 
thumbs and forefingers ; then the lower part of 
his body became paralyzed too ; and still he la- 
bored, removing from Paris, to dwell in the pleas- 
ant valley of Montmorenci, or in the house of his 
brother, also a historian, and man of letters. How he 
endured his infirmity, an extract from his correspond- 
ence may tell. He says : — " Were I to begin my life 
over again I would choose the road that has con- 
ducted me to where I now am. Blind and afflicted, 
without hope and without leisure, I can safely ofifer 
this testimony, the sincerity of which, coming as it 
does, from a man in my condition, cannot be called 
in question. There is something in this world worth 
more than pleasure, more than fortune, more than 
health itself — I mean devotion to science." In spite 
of his multiplied afflictions, he has maintained his 
high rank as the first historian of continental Eu- 
rope, and his not less lofty place as master of his spirit 
and of his sorrows: now that he is dead, his high 



I MADAME PARADIST. 103 

Llace among the noblest and strongest of the intel- 
ectsof the world will not soon be filled. 

More than one worn an, nnder the pressnre of the 
rreat calamity of blindness, has displayed a fnll 
jneasnre of the patient heroism and nndiscouraged 
mduring strength so nobly characteristic of the sex. 
Among these I shall only delay to name Madame Yon 
Paradisi, a German lady, who lost her sight at the 
age of between two and three years. Being, however, 
providentially furnished with good instructors, and 
t-apidly developing nnder their tnition a precocious 
knd genuine genius for nmsic, she pursued both vocal 
knd instrumental studies with snch success that when 
bnly eleven years old she sang in public before the 
great Empress-queen, Maria Theresa. Tlie touching- 
Jy sweet voice, and skillful, though artless, execution 
{of the child so won upon the true womanly heart of 
ithe Empress that she bestowed upon the singer a 
generous pension, which lasted as long as the giver 
lived. In after years Madame Paradisi, under the care 
of her mother, made the tour of Europe, giving public 
concerts here and there. At these she often melted 
the audience to sympathetic tears by her feeling ut- 
terance of a sad song upon her blindness, composed 
for her by a brother in affliction, Pfeffel, the blind 
poet, and set to music by her musical instructor, 
Kozeluch, a composer of note in those days. Of his 
compositions Madame Paradisi held in her memory 
more than sixty, note for note ; many of them being 
of the most intricate character. Besides her extraor- 
dinary talents in this her special pursuit, Madame 
Paradisi possessed many of the most remarkable of 
the powers so often given in kindly compensation for 



104: SONGS IN THE NIGHT. 






the loss of sight. So exquisite was the sensibility ofi 
her touch that by her fingers she could determine the 
color of surfaces, the genuineness of coins, and the 
delineations on playing-cards ; she was also a geogra- 
pher and skillful arithmetician. Her sweet and happji 
disposition, her brilliant intellect, her ready wit and 
humor made her a centre of attraction in every circle..- 
Capable of sustaining her sorrows in solitude, it was;' 
not even to be realized from her demeanor in society, 
that she w^as in aught debarred from using any of the 
faculties of her kind. Instead of being a gloomy 
monument, radiating the doleful influences of hope- 
less grief, she was one of the brightest and most 
radiantly light-giving spirits of her time ; as if the 
closing of the outward avenues of light had con- 
duced to the development of a brighter, purer, and 
quite perennial fountain of far better light within — 
the light of a courageous, self-sustaining and im- 
pregnably joyful spirit. 

]S"or has our own country been destitute of those, 
who encompassed by the" ever during dark," or walk- 
ing in the uncertain twilight, have yet taught us 
precious lessons of faithful toil, and heroic effort. 

A student in Kutgers College, after a gradual de- 
cline of sight, at length lost it altogether. He was 
poor, without friends, and with two orphan sisters 
dependent upon him, and his education not yet com- 
pleted. To a less brave and hardy nature, the fear- 
ful condition in which he stood, would have been 
overwhelming. But the congregation of troubles 
came to a valiant man who would do all that man 
could do to meet and conquer them. He instructed 
his sisters in the pronunciation of Latin and Greek ; 



A TEIUMPH OF RESOLUTION. 105 

let tliem to reading his text books, and himself to 
pmmitting their contents to memory. The task 
teemed hopeless ; yet what cannot resolution compass ? 
Attention, sensibility to impressions, and retentive- 
^ess of memory were quickened. What a man gains 
ly severe labour, he is apt to value and retain. Those 
>f us who acquire information with ease, forget 
ith greater ease, and then console our indolence by 
le complaint of bad memories. Nelson, for such 
'as our blind friend's name, soon became the wonder 
►f the college. A dispute arose one day in recita- 
lion between himself and the professor, concerning 
he construction of a sentence in Yirgil. The Pro- 
fessor at length flatly ruled him wrong ; himself giv- 
ing what he considered the true rendering. With the 
lolor mounting to his temples, and in an agitated voice, 
pTelson replied, " Your reading would be right, sir. 
If the mark were a comma, but," turning his sightless 
Drbs to the book he held in his hand, " in my Heyne's 
dition it is a colon." Such was the accuracy with 
vhich he committed his tasks. 
His degree is obtained, and with swelling hearts 
8 class-mates go forth to the career which invite to 
brtune and renown. But what prizes are there for 
im ? His spirit is one of almost fierce independence, 
e will not crouch and whine to beg ; but manfully 
eek to gain bread for his sisters and himself, by 
:eaching. The experiment is made and is successful. 
His reputation spreads and scholars flock to him. 
He is made professor in his own alma mater, and dis- 
charges its duties with honor to the college and him- 
'^pelf, and does more to elevate the standard of classical 
Wholarship in our seminaries of learning, than any 
■ 5^ 



106 SONGS IN THE NIGHT. 

man of his time. The strong will conquered fate in 
the forms of obscurity, poverty, and blindness, and 
won for him repute, worldly comfort, and scholastic 
success. 

I am now to speak of a person, who, although not 
totally blind, has struggled against such fearful odds, 
so long and so successfully, as to entitle him to a de- 
gree of admiration accorded to few of his literary 
contemporaries. At the age of seventeen, while in 
College, a missile, misdirected by the hand of a class- 
mate, struck him in the eye, which caused its loss. 
The other was so far affected by sympathy as to en- 
danger it. The service of the best oculists were 
invoked at home ; and then, two or three years were 
passed in Europe in hope that relief might be found 
for the remaining organ, but in vain. About the age 
twenty, he returned to his native land, having only a 
part of an eye, enough to serve him in walking, but not 
enough to enable him to read or write save, by the use 
of a machine invented for the blind. His father was 
an eminent jurist, and he himself had been destined for 
the bar, but his infirmity closed his path to distinction 
in that profession. Bracing himself against despon- 
dency, and refusing to employ the language of idle 
regret, the cheap coin of sloth and imbecility, with 
admirable calmness and a beautiful submission to his 
lot, and the stern duties which it imposed, he sat him 
down to prepare for the vocation which he had select- 
ed — historical literature ! Ten years of quiet, systema- 
tic study 'are spent on the great masters of the art — 
their pages read, marked, learned, and inwardly 
digested. Meanwhile, his own theme is chosen. A 
momentous era in the world's story, a reign that vies 



ME. PREBCOTT.. lOY 

in interest in with any other on record, is to be treated. 
Archives are to be searched, masses of manuscripts 
— official documents, correspondence, etc., are to be 
canvassed, old chronicles to be consulted — reading 
without end to be done, and notes without end to be 
taken. Calm verdicts upon vexed questions are to 
be rendered ; character, life, and manners in a roman- 
tic age are to be drawn and colored with the skill and 
fidelity of the poet ; the best powers of statesman and 
philosopher are to be exercised, and the results of in- 
quiry, comparison, and meditation, are to be given to 
the world, in such a form that the hurrying throng 
shall pause to read the scroll. Yast work for one who 
must read through others' eyes, whilst his writing is 
hidden from his own imperfect vision. 

Thus are other ten years spent, when at the age of 
forty, Mr.Prescott's Ferdinand and Isabella is given to 
the public, l^eed I attempt to say how the work was 
performed ? Tlie unparalleled popularity of its author 
among American historians, and the judgment of the 
world, which classes him with Macaulay, is a sufficient 
answer. Since then, we have received from his un- 
tiring industry, and pen of marvellous grace, Mexico, 
Peru, a collection of reviews, and even now, the first 
two volumes of Philip the Second. What a monu- 
ment are these eleven volumes to a man who as to 
literary labour is virtually blind ! "What stories do 
. they not tell of faith and patience — of the strength 
I which copes with misfortune, and masters it — of the 
resolution which is victorious over apparent impossi- 
' bilities ! What a clear starry light shines out from 
■ this brave man's study, to cheer us forward on our 
ojV'n dark paths ! 



108 SONGS IN THE NIGHT. 

May 1 be permitted to go farther, and to speak not 
only of the historian, but of the friend ? As I have 
seen Mr. Prescott in the relations of private life, at 
table, in the drawing-room or the library ; as I have 
heard his merry langh and pleasant voice ; as I have 
heard him contributing by his ample stores of knowl- 
edge, his genial humor and friendly nature, to the en- 
lightenment and comfort of all around him ; as I have 
noted the undimmed cheerfulness and serenity of his 
character, and the benignity of his disposition, free 
from all morbid egotism, and embittered depression : 
as I have marked how calmly and courageously he 
carried the heavy load of his privation ; I have 
thought that the world had gained much in the par- 
tial eclipse of his sight. Kot often is it that we are 
favored with such lay sermons — sermons which come 
home to our hearts and lives with telling power, when 
they preach to us in facts, and are quickened by the 
vital throb of reality. From association with him, I 
have always gone forth a more contented, cheerful 
man. 

Of a townsman of Mr. Prescott, am I now to speak ; 
of a young man, mighty in endurance, and withal ad- 
mirable beyond praise for what he has done. I mean 
Francis Parkman, author of the History of the 
Conspiracy of Pontiac. ITot blind, yet unable to 
fasten his gaze upon any object, and thus disabled 
from reading and writing ; the victim of fearful pains 



FRANCIS PAEKMAN. 109 

in eyes, head, and limbs, which for months together 
subjected him to a torture well-nigh as searching and 
exquisite as that of the rack, he has yet devoted him- 
self to literary pursuits. Collecting his mind, and 
composing it under the pressure of the fiercest phy- 
sical anguish, without halting or wavering he has pur- 
sued his labors. 

The work he has given to the world is one of the 
most admirable specimens 'of historical composition 
produced in our country. Fresh, vigorous, and singu- 
larly graphic in style, its masterly grouping and 
picturesque treatment of a most interesting era in our 
annals must commend it to the warmest approval of 
the literary public ; and coming as it does, from a 
man circumstanced as I have described, it seems to 
me one of the noblest trophies which valor has 
wrung from sufi'ering. I^or satisfied with this, he has, 
still under the pressure of affliction, prosecuted his 
labors, and is now engaged upon a history of the 
French Empire in America. If conduct such as this 
does not glare out upon the world like the struggles 
and achievements of warriors, yet when the world 
comes to mature age, it will appreciate these triumphs 
over infirmity and agony, more than victories com- 
passed by blood and fire. 

And now am I brought to the last and most 
renowned of all my heroes ; one whose name has be- 
come a household word throughout the nations of the 



110 SONGS JN THE NIGHT. 



I 



earth; whose colossal fame is only surpassed by his 
more colossal genius. Born in Bread street, London, 
in December, 1608, he enjoyed throughout early life, 
all the advantages which the affection and taste of 
cultivated parents, in affluent circumstances, could 
furnish. Provided with the best masters, he early 
showed an amazing aptitude for learning, which only 
grew with his growth. At the same time, he mani- 
fested a remarkable talent for versification. Let us 
describe the daily course of his youthful life in his 
own forcible English. The passage is from the Apo- 
logy for Smectymnuus ; and is in answer to asper- 
sions upon his morals. 

" Those morning haunts are where they should be — 
at home ; not sleeping nor concocting the surfeits of 
an irregular feast, but up and stirring in winter, often 
ere the sound of any bell awakens men to labor or devo- 
tion ; in summer, as oft with the bird that first rouses, 
or not much tardier, to read good authors, or cause 
them to be read till the attention be weary, or the 
memory have its full fraught. Then with useful and 
generous labors, preserving the body's health and 
hardiness, to render lightsome, clear, and not lump- 
ish obedience to the mind, to the cause of religion, 
and our country's liberty, when it shall require firm 
hearts in sound bodies to cover their stations, rather 
than see the ruin of our Protestantism, and the en- 
forcement of a slavish life." 



JOHN MILTON. HI 

It was with a noble appreciation of the ideal of 
literary aims, and with a wise choice of authors, that 
he read. He preferred, he says, "above them 
all, the two famous renowners of Beatrice and 
Laura, who never write, but to the honor of 
those to whom they devote their verse, displaying 
sublime and pure thoughts without transgression. 
And long it was not after, when I was confirmed in 
this opinion, that he who would not be frustrate of his 
hope to write well hereafter, in things laudable, ought 
himself to he a true poem j that is a composition and 
pattern of the best and honorablest things ; not pre- 
suming to sing high praises of heroic men, or famous 
cities, unless that he gave himself experience and 
practice of all that is praiseworthy." 

And again : " That I may tell ye whither my young- 
er feet wandered, I betook me among those lofty fables 
and romances which recount in solemn cantos, the 
deeds of knighthood, founded by our victorious 
kings, and from hence had in renown over all Christ- 
endom. * * * From the laureate fraternity 
of poets, riper years, and the careless round of 
studying and reading, led me to the shady spaces of 
philosophy, but chiefly to the divine volumes of Plato 
and his equal, Xenophon ; where, if I should tell ye 
w^hat I learned of chastity and love — I mean that 
irhich is truly so, whose charming-cup is only virtue, 
•^liich she bears in her hand to those that are worthy ; 



112 SONGS IN THE NIGHT. 

tlie rest are cheated with a thick intoxicating potion 
which a certain sorcerer, the abuser of love's name, 
carries about — and how the first and chiefest of love 
begins and ends in the soul, producing those happy 
twins of her divine generation, knowledge and virtue. 
With such abstracted sublimities as these, it might be 
worth your listening, readers, as I may one day hope 
to have ye in a still time, where there shall be no 
chiding." 

Pm-suing his studies at the university of Cambridge, 
betook his degree at the age of three and twenty ; when 
he gave up all thoughts of entering the profession to 
which he had been destined by his father ; his dislike 
of subscription, and oaths, which in his opinion, 
required what he called an " accommodating con- 
science," preventing his taking orders. His inability 
to do so gave him pain, for his father had fondly cher- 
ished the expectation of seeing his son a distinguished 
churchman. Obedience to his own conscience, how- 
ever, fortunately produced no estrangement between 
his father and himself. He now retired to the family 
estate in the country, where he spent five years in 
quaffing still deeper draughts from the fountains of 
learning, and preparing himself by intimate and 
prolonged communion with the great minds of 
antiquity for the sublime career he was yet to 
run. 

When about thirty years of age, the society of the 



HIS EARLY BTUDIES. 113 

continent threw wide its inviting portals to him. 
Everywhere through southern France and Italy, he 
was received with eager respect and cordial hospital- 
ity, and entertained by the patrons of learning and the 
choicest scholars, as an honored guest. Rarely had a 
private English gentleman received so much flattering 
attention as was now accorded to the author of " Co- 
mus," although he visited Galileo in the inquisitorial 
dungeons, and never withheld his own tongue from 
the utterance of his religious opinions. The wonders of 
art, which had made Italy the glory of the world, were 
now revealed probably to the first Englishman whose 
critical judgment and answering genius enabled him 
fully to appreciate them. Architecture, paintings 
sculpture, music, contributed their choicest stores to 
enrich a nature so magnificently endowed, and already 
so highly cultivated. It had been his intention to 
continue his journey to Greece, the earlier home of 
the arts ; but his tour was abruptly terminated, for 
his patriotic ear now caught the first mutterings of 
the storm which was gathering to break upon his 
beloved native land. At the crisis of the revolution, 
England needed every faithful son at home. Thither, 
therefore, he hastened, to do what in him lay, in the 
coming battle for human rights. Humble enough was 
the weapon at first placed within his grasp — ^neither 
the sword of a captain, nor the pike of an invincible 
— only a pedagogue's switch. But he that is faithful 



114 SONGS IN THE NIGHT. 



II 



in the least, shall he not be counted worthy of the 
greatest ? So John Milton used the birch with a zeal 
rarely surpassed by a schoolmaster, as the backs of : 
his scholars testified, and did what he could to ground ! 
them well in the knowledge of the classics. 

Later, Proyidence summoned him to the use of ' 
another instrument, in the wielding of which he was ^ 
already well versed. The hosts of England were ar-- 
rayed in unbrotherly battle against each other. Cav- ■ 
aliers and Koundheads were joined in the fearful' 
shock, and from the din and cloud strode forth the 
gigantic figure of Oliver, leading his Ironsides to 
victory. Cromwell's sword, like that of Gideon of 
old, wrought marvellous things. What that sword 
was in battle, was Milton's pen in controversy ; the 
foremost and most trenchant weapon in the defence 
of the Revolution, and the rights of men. A fear- 
ful antagonist was he, answering to his own magni- 
ficent description of a champion of the truth. " Zeal," 
he says, in the most fiery and vehement prose-poetry 
in the English language, " whose substance is ethereal, 
arming in complete diamond, ascends his fiery chariot 
drawn with two blazing meteors, figured like beasts, 
but of a higher breed than any the zodiac yields — 
resembling two of those four which Ezekiel and St. 
John saw : the one visaged like a lion, to express 
power, high authority and indignation, the other 
of countenance like a man, to cast derision and scorn 



HIS CONTROVEESIAL CAREER. 115 

ripou perverse and fraudulent seducers ; with, these, 

the invincible warrior Zeal, shaking loosely the slack 

i reins, drives over the heads of scarlet prelates, and 

! such as are insolent to maintain traditions, bruising 

their stiff necks under his flaming w^heels." 

l^or was it needful that he should defend liberty 
from its open foes only. On the triumph of the Pres- 
byterians in the severe contest, they sought to hamper 
and restrict the liberty of the press, following hard 
after the evil example of despotic king and hierarchic 
church. He now stands up before the parliament and 
the world, to utter his immortal oration, the grandest 
in our own, perhaps in any language, in behalf of the 
Liberty of Unlicensed Printing. Hear him, as he 
pleads for the charter of freedom in every land and age. 
" I deny not but that it is of greatest concernment 
in the Church and Commonwealth, to have a vigilant 
eye, how books demean themselves, as well as men ; 
and thereafter to confine in prison, and do sharpest 
justice on them as malefactors ; for books are not ab- 
solutely dead things, but do contain a progeny of life 
in them, to be as active as that soul was whose progeny 
they are. Nay, they do preserve, as in a vial, the 
purest efficac}^ and ex.traction of that living intellect 
that bred them. I know they are as lively, and as 
vigorously productive, as those fabulous dragon's 
teeth ; and being sown up and down, may chance to 
spring up armed men. 



116 S0NG8 m THE NIGHT. 

" And yet on the otlier hand, unless wariness be used, 
as good almost kill a man as kill a good book. "Who 
kills a man, kills a reasonable creature, God's image ; 
but he who destroys a good book, kills reason itself ; 
kills the image of God, as it were, in the eye. Many 
a man lives a burden to the earth ; but a good book 
is the precious life-blood of a master spirit, embalmed 
and treasured up on purpose to a life beyond life. It 
is true no age can restore a life whereof perhaps there 
is no great loss ; and revolutions of ages do not oft 
recover the loss of a rejected truth, for want of which 
whole nations fare worse. We should be wary, there- 
fore, what persecution we raise against the living 
labors of public men, how we spill that seasoned life 
of man, preserved and stored up in books ; since we 
see a kind of homicide may be thus committed, some- 
times a martyrdom ; and if it extend to the whole im- 
pression, a kind of massacre, whereof the execution 
ends not in the slaying of an elemental life, but 
strikes at the ethereal and fifth essence, the breath of 
reason itself — slays an immortality rather than a 
life." 

He now, by the assaults of foreign hirelings, is sum- 
moned to the " Defence of the People of England." 
He is seated in his little study, carpet of rushes 
beneath his feet, the walls decorated with green hang- 
ings, on one side his much used organ, and in the 
middle of the room his writing-table, at which he sits 



PREMONITIONS OF BLINDNESS. 117 



as if cliained. 'Never did gallej-slave ply the oar 

more constantly than he the pen. But what is this ? 

^Is daylight fading in the west, and twilight creeping 

on ? For the page is melting away before his eyes. 

ilN^ay, for as he casts his glance through the window, 

jeatching sight of vernal green and trees, he beholds 

bright masses of sunshine lying on the earth. He 

'lays down his pen and betakes him to the organ to 

'I 

I Refresh himself a while with those strains which seem 

to bear the human spirit aloft above the darkness and 
■storms of life. As the last chord is'struck, he rises like 
a giant refreshed with new wine, to prosecute his scho- 
lastic labors. But the letters are blurred and indis- 
tinct. A misty veil seems to have risen between him- 
self and the lately written page. Can it be that sight 
is fading ? The physicians are summoned. They de- 
clare upon examination that the work must be given 
[up. " But the work cannot be given up ; for it is the 
defence of England." Nevertheless, say the doctors, 
the public weal must be surrendered to private good. 
" The price at which the world will buy that book, 
John Milton, is thy blindness." " Is it so ? then must 
the sacrifice be made." 

There is a grand temple, wherein have been offered 
many oblations and sacrifices for the good of man- 
kind ; where stalwart men and fragile women, mailed 
warriors and studious monks,watchers in the dwellings 
of woe, and sailors upon the stormy main, nurses at 



118 SONGS IN THE NIGHT. 



thft 

add" 



the bedside of pestilence and miners for 
riciL ore of truth, have laid down youth and easej 
worldly comfort and the fair speech of their fel- 
lows, for the lasting good of humanity. In the 
deepening twilight, up the broad aisle, there walks 
calmly and without ostentation, a man in the 
prime of life. His step is slow and solemn, as 
befits the occasion. He kneels before the altar, that 
altar upon which so many precious gifts had been 
placed before ; while humbly, reverently, he surrenders 
for the good of his (Country and the world, what must 
have been almost dearer than life itself — his sight. 
Thus were those eyes which had swept the starry fir- 
miament and passed beyond the range of ordinary 
vision ; that had lent almost the sun's glory to the 
landscape ; that had invested nature with a splendor 
and grandeur, to impart which is rarely conferred 
upon the sons of men ; that had revelled in the stores 
of art, and searched so widely and so wisely through 
boundless fields of knowledge ; those eyes which had 
made him familiar with Plato and Xenophon, as if 
they had been his schoolmates ; that had enabled him 
to interpret the words of Homer and Dante ; that had 
given him the power to learn, that he might teach 
his fellow-men ; thus were those eyes serenely and 
without a murmur yielded at the call of duty. A 
nobler sacrifice I hardly know. Let him tell us of 
the privation in his own words : 



SONNETS ON HIS BLINDNESS. 119 

" Cyriac, this three years' day, these eyes, though clear 

To outward view, of blemish, or of spot, 

Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot ; 
Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear 
Of sun, or moon, or star, throughout the year ; 

Or man, or woman. Yet I argue not 

Against Heaven's hand or will, nor bate a jot 
Of heart or hope ; but still bear up and steer 

Eight onwar^. What supports me, dost thou ask ? 
The conscience, friend, to have lost them overplied 

In Liberty's defence, my noble task, 
Of which all Europe rings from side to side. 

This thought might lead me through the world's vain mask, 
Content, though bUnd, had I no better guide." 

Let US listen to a still loftier strain ; 

" When I consider how my Ufe is spent 

Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, 

And that one talent which is death to hide, 
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent 
To serve therewith my Maker, and present 

"My true account, lest he returning, chide ; 

' Doth God exact day-labor, light denied ?' 
I fondly ask ; but patience to prevent 

That murmur soon replies, ' God doth not need 
Either man's work, or his own gifts ; who best 

Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best ; his state 
Is kingly ; thousands at his bidding speed. 

And post o'er land and ocean without rest ; 
They also serve who only stand and wait.' " 

And now, by slow degrees and manifold experi- 



120 SONGS IN THE NIGHT. 






enceSj and not least by this last sad affliction, had the 
soul been nurtured which was to 

" Assert eternal Providence, 



And justify the ways of God to men." 

In the evil days on which his lot had now fallen, 
for the Commonwealth was ended, and Charles the 
Second had returned, he was proscribed, and his life 
in peril. Sunk in the depths of poverty, 



With darkness and with dangers compassed round," 






he sat him down to write that work which the world 
has said is the greatest of the fruits of genius. He 
sent it forth to a ribald generation ; it was hailed 
with jeers and derision. How could Charles and his 
parasites apprehend the meaning and the spirit of 
Paradise Lost ? But he was assured that it would 
live ; and -syith calm conj&dence he committed it to 
the future ; that future, which by its appreciation, 
reverence and love, has justified his lofty trust- 
Paradise Lost was followed in a few years by Para- 
dise Regained, and Samson Agonistes; and now 
nothiog is left to the great bard but to die. He has 
sung an immortal strain, and lived a life worthy of 
such a singer ; and his death rounds and completes 
the whole. As we stand by the open grave in St. 
Giles's, Cripplegate, with the small party of his con- 
temporaries who are here to pay him the last sad 



HIS IMMORTAL FAME. 121 

iribute of respect, we repeat the woi-ds which he used 
^f his own blind hero ; 



" Samson has quit him 



Like Samson, and heroically has finished 

A life heroic. 

Nothing is here for tears : nothing to wail, 

Or knock the breast ; no weakness, no contempt, 

Dispraise or blame ; nothing but well and fair." 

As we look around upon the strife of little souls, 
nd mark the petty prizes for which they are contend- 
ig ; as we hear upon all hands the wails of discon- 
3nt and complaint, and feel how few are the mighty 
nd the noble to cheer us with the light of their 
resence and the inspiration of their example and 
ieir words, we are strongly tempted to join in the 
^ave reproach of Wordsworth's sonnet : 

" Milton ! thou shouldst be living at this hour : 

England hath need of thee ; she is a fen • 

Of stagnant waters ; — altar, sword and pen, 
Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower 
Have forfeited their ancient Enghsh dower 

Of inward happiness. We are selfish men. 

raise us up ; return to us again, 
And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power. 

Thy soul was like a star, and dwelt apart ; 
Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea ; 
Pure as the naked heaven, majestic, free. 

Yet didst thou travel on life's common way 
In cheerful godliness ; and yet thy heart 

The lowliest duties on herself did lay." 



122 SONGS rsr the night. 

Thus have I attempted to show by these examples, 
how men have struggled with undaunted front, against 
the severest misfortune and privation, making head 
against calamity, revealing the latent resources of our 
nature, vindicating the compensations which God. has 
made to wait upon every condition of man's life. Wo 
have seen men, w^ithout the light, achieving eminence 
in abstract and natural science, in history and ]3oetry, 
performing feats which would be esteemed well- 
nigh prodigies even for those who possessed their 
vision. 

There is one department, however, wherein I am 
obliged to record the inferiority of the blind. I mean 
that of spoken eloquence. There is a popular fallacy , 
that this is a profession wherein the blind may readily 
excel ; to which Mr. Wirt's celebrated description 
of the Blind Preacher, in his letters of the British 
Spy, has given still greater currency. I will not; 
charge that distinguished person with intentional ex- 
travagance ; but his picture is an exaggeration. His; 
own mind was, in a morbid and excited state ; pro-; 
foundly impressed by the sabbath-like stillness of the 
forest ; the grassy turf illumined by flashes of sunshine, 
and speckled by the twinkling shadows of the leaves ; 
while through the trees appears the modest country 
church. Brooding over a youth mis-spent, haunted 
by the phantoms of remorse and . despair, he crosses 
the threshold of the house of God, to hear if any word 



BLINDNESS AN IMPEDIMENT TO ORATORY. 123 

can be spoken that will dispel his gloom. An aged 
man stands in the desk. Silvery locks fall down his 
shoulders. His voice is tremnlous from age. His 
manner of simple fervor betokens the deepest ear- 
nestness. As the hearer looks more narrowly, he per- 
ceives that the speaker is blind. His own condition, 
the scene, the sightless apostle of the truth, all com- 
;bine to arouse him to a pitch of enthusiasm ; and he 
pronounces Waddell the most eloquent of men. 

That Mr. Wirt on this occasion may have found him 
BO, I do not question. But that the audience under 
ordinary conditions would have been affected to the 
I same or to an approaching degree, I cannot believe. 
: Excel as the blind may in literature, the magic wand 
of the great orator cannot be given to them. Shall I 
demonstrate my position ? "When you are engaged in 
conversation, is it not requisite, in order to the fullest 
interest and animation, that you have the, tribute of 
your companion's eye? Is it possible for you to sus- 
itain a prolonged and exciting conversation, in a dark 
room? Can you make a friend or intimate of any 
person, who when you speak to him averts his glance ? 
•No, is the unmistakable answer to this question. 
[Why ? You come to your deepest acquaintance with 
others' sensibilities, whereby your own are kindled, 
f through their eyes and your own. The sweetest and 
•mightiest tie which binds us to each other — sym 
ipathy — whose glow kindles our enthusiasm, whose 



124 SONGS IN" THE NIGHT. 

magic power enables ii§ to transfer our life into an- 
other's life, to pervade our own imagination with 
anotiier's being, reveals itself not through the poor 
ministry of words, but in the divine expression of th^ 
human face, which concentrates and glorifies itself 
in the electric flashing of the eyes. These orbs are 
the mirrors of the soul ; the lights which kindle the 
fires of friendship and affection. 

Again ; yon are a public speaker. Suppose you 
are called upon to address an audience from behind a 
screen ; or with your face turned to the wall ; or 
with a bandage across your eyes. "Would your words 
have power, or your nature inspiration ? Picture 
Demosthenes, or Clay, addressing an audience, they, 
hanging breathless on his lips, when suddenly the 
lights go out. 'No poise of character, no self-possession, 
no absorption of the speaker in his theme is equal to 
such a crisis. 'No spell of eloquence is mighty enough 
to hold an audience together under such circum- 
stances. Tliere can be neither speaking nor hearing 
in the dark. 

What is the secret of the richest, greatest elo- 
quence ? Neither in finish of style, nor in force of 
logic, nor affluence of diction, nor grace of manner, 
nor pomp of imagination, nor in all of these com- 
bined, is it to be found. It may be accompanied by 
these — it may be destitute of them. It is in the man 
— feeling his theme, feeling his audience, and making 



SYMPATHY NECESSARY TO THE SPEAKER. 125 

them feel the theme and himself. He pursues the 
line of his thought ; a sentence is dropped which falls 
like a kindling spark into the breast of some c?iie pres- 
ent. The light of that spark shoots up to his eyes, 
and sends an answer to the speaker. The telegraphic 
signal is felt, and the speaker is instantly tenfold the 
stronger ; he believes what he is saying more deeply 
than before, when a second sentence creates a response 
in another part of the house. As he proceeds, the 
listless are arrested, the lethargic are startled into 
attention, tokens of sympathy and emotion flash out 
upon him from every portion of the audience. That 
audience has lent to him its strength. It is the same 
double action which characterizes every movement 
of the universe ; action and re-action ; the speaker 
giving the best that is in him to his hearers, they 
lending the divinest portion of themselves to him. 
This tidal movement of sympathy, this magnetic ac- 
tion, awakening and answering in the eyes of speaker 
and hearer, by which he is filled with their life, and 
they pervaded by his thought, is to me the secret 
and the condition of real eloquence ; and clearly 
this condition is one unattainable by a man destitute 
!of sight. His audience may yield him their deepest, 
holiest sympathies ; yet how can he be made aware 
of this ? Between himself and them a great gulf is 
fixed, over w^hich no man may pass. His discourse is 

ja soliloquy spoken to his own ear. His imagination 

I 



126 SONGS IN THE NIGHT. 1 

the only gage wHcli he possesses of the appreciative- 
ness of his audience. His words may be beneath 
them, or above them ; his thoughts may be lofty, al- 
most divine ; his convictions may reach to the very 
roots of his being ; his voice may be sweet as thrill- 
ing music, and yet, so far as the last and highest 
requisite of eloquence is concerned he might as well 
be speaking to the trees. His audience is not aij 
reality, but only the product of his imagination. He 
is wliolly incompetent to appreciate or receive any 
sympathetic response which they may be disposed to' 
render him. Such inspiration as he may have is the 
influence of his subject upon his own mind and heart. 
The answer of the human eye. the mightiest quick- 
ener of eloquence, is forever withholden from him. 
Therefore, I have said that this sphere of power and 
distinction is shut up against him. The blind may 
achieve the laurel of the poet, the fame of the histor- 
ian, but his hand can never wield the wand of en- 
chantment which is given to the great orator. 

Cheerfully do I turn me now to look upon some of 
^he compensations which underlie and bless the lot 
of those who sit in darkness. Forlorn indeed, and 
wretched, does their state at first sight seem. Shut 
out from vision of mountains and oceans, without a 
message from sun or star ; cheered by no pleasant 
sight of corn-fields, or meadows dotted with flocks 
and herds ; unused to the dreamy twilight of the deep 



THE OTHER SENSES QUICKENED. 127 

forest, or the silvery gleam of the brook as it breaks 
into sunshine ; imtanght in any alphabet by which to 
interpret the craft of the builder or the miracles of 
painting or sculpture, the condition of the blind 
seems dreary and dismal enough — quite enough to 
justify the pathetic recital of Milton : 



" Thus with the year 



Seasons return ; but not to me returns 

Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn, 

Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer's rose, 

Or flocks or herds, or human face divine. 

But cloud instead, and everduring dark 

Surrounds me, from the cheerful ways of men 

Cut off, and for the book of knowledge fair, 

Presented with a universal blank 

Of nature's works, to me expunged and rased, 

And wisdom at one entrance quite shut out." 

I have already had occasion to hint at the exquis- 
ite training imparted to the other senses, by reason of 
the absence of this princely one ; the delicacy of the 
touch, amounting almost to the development of 
i another sense, so quick do the nerves become in their 
apprehension of forms and distances. But the balance 
of faculties is maintained chiefly through the ear ; and 
upon reflection, is it not through this oi'gan that the 
largest contributions to happiness are made from with- 
out ? Wordsworth has declared the capabilities of 
the ear, in lines as philosophically accurate in their 
analysis, as their measure is poetically beautiful : 



128 SONGS IN THE NIGHT. 

" Thy functions are ethereal, 

As if within thee dwelt a glancing mind, 
Organ of vision ! and a spirit aerial 

Informs the cell of hearing, dark and blind, 
Intricate labyrinth, more dread for thought 

To enter, than oracular cave ; 
Strict passage, through which sighs are brought, 

And whispers, for the heart, their slave. 

* * * and warbled air, 

"Whose piercing sweetness can unloose 
The chains of frenzy, or entice a smile 

Into the ambush of despair ; 
Hosannas pealing down the long drawn aisle, 

And requiems answered by the pulse that beats 

Devoutly, in life's last retreats. 

***** 
Blest be the song, that brightens 

The blind man's gloom, exalts the veteran's mirth ; 
Nor scorned the peasant's whistling breath, that lightens 

His duteous toil of furrowing the green earth. 
For the tired slave song lifts the languid oar, 

And bids it aptly fall, with chime 
That beautifies the fairesr shore. 

And mitigates the harshest clime." 

The State of constant vigilance in wliich the blind 
man is required to keep his perceptive faculties, begets 
habits of the acntest and widest observation. His 
acquaintance with the facts occurring immediately 
in his own neighborhood, will probably be more 
thorough and complete than that of his seeing com- 
panions. Moreover, it is needful that that which he 



THE BLIND MAn's NEED IS HIS GAIN. 129 

discerns and learns should be well retained ; incapa- 
ble of reference, he must needs have, and the need 
begets, and ample and retentive memory. Others 
acquire the treasures of knowledge with ease, and 
scatter them with prodigality. He acquires with 
toil, and thriftily hoards his possessions. It is not 
because nature has endowed him with a better 
memory than other men, but because necessity is 
urging him to acquire it, that he possesses, in such 
high condition, this much-coveted perfection of de- 
velopment. Forgetfulness is the offspring of inat- 
tention and sloth ; vivid recollection is the product of 
the natural faculty, carefully disciplined. A man 
rarely works when he can help it. A taskmaster of 
some sort is usually required to urge him to his duty. 
Herein the blind man's need is the blind man's gain. 
He pays the price in effort ; and receives the reward 
in improvement. But I need not prosecute this in- 
quiry further into the realm of his intellectual nature. 
AH his richest gains there would be as dross, were 
there nothing better given to cheer and comfort him. 
The dearest compensation awarded to the blind, as I 
•reckon it, is the love which attends his steps. I am 
told that this is a cold, hard world ; that man is the 
devil's child ; that the child's works are worthy the 
offspring of the father. I am assured that selfishness 
is the ruling law of life ; that friendship is a name, 

and love a deceit. 

6* 



130 SONGS m THE NIGHT. 

So have I not found tlie world or man. Will 
you accept my testimony on this point? It has 
fallen to my lot to travel as widely in this country 
as perhaps any man of my age. My wayfarings 
have taken me to the boundless prairies of the 
"West, to the cotton plantations of the South, the farms 
of the Middle States, and the manufacturing towns of 
!N"ew England. My path has run by the margin of 
the Atlantic, on the shores of the great lakes, by the 
banks of the Mississippi, and along the verge of the 
Gulf. I have travelled by every means of convey- 
ance, on foot and on horseback, in canal boats and in 
stages, on rail cars and steamboats. Almost all my 
journeys have been prosecuted alone. My compara- 
tively helpless condition has often thrown me upon the 
care of strangers. I have been obliged to appeal for 
assistance to gentlemen and loafers ; to the negro 
slave or his master : to railroad conductors and to 
hotel landlords ; to waiters and hack-drivers ; to men 
represented as the coarsest and harshest of their kind. 
At times I have had no choice but to address men 
when in a towering passion, when their mouths 
were filled with oaths and blasphemy ; and I have to 
say that never have I spoken to a fellow man — 
but once — saying that I could not see, and asking 
him to do the thing I needed, and been turned empty 
away. 

At this spell of the feeble, the hardest fibres of 



THE BLIND MAN IS AN OPTIMIST. 131 

man's nature dissolve to the tenderness of a woman's, 
and the gentleness of a mother takes the place of re- 
volting coarseness and brutality. Such is the result 
of my acquaintance with mankind; a result, to which 
I believe it will be found upon examination, nearly 
all other persons partially or totally deprived of 
Bight have been brought. Paradoxical as it may 
seem, the sightless man sees the best side of human 
nature — the blind man is an optimist. With all its 
faults and vices, with all its sins and crimes, there is 
ever to be found lurking in our nature a kindly sen- 
sibility, a genial helpful sympathy, toward those who 
are suffering and distressed ; and those deprived of 
sight appear to me to share a larger portion of this 
holy treasure than any other class of the afflicted. 
Though the natural sun be blotted from their vision, 
human affection by its ministering care well-nigh 
replaces it. Though the universe of visual beauty 
be a blank, soft voices and kind hands create another, 
perhaps a lovelier world : for those who are thrown 
by calamity into the arms of Providence, Provi- 
dence assures protection, and appoints angels whose 
changeless and gladdening office is to smooth their 
way and stay their steps, and yield guardianship and 
succor. The heavy laden are dear to God ; and man 
Ijasnot so utterly lost God's image as not to.be kind 
to those whom the Father loveth. 

Nor are there any so bereaved and desolate but that 
they are as it were hedged about with blessings. Ko 



132 SONGS IN THE NIGHT. 

lot of human life is so hard and burdened that sure mer- 
cies are not promised — that constant benedictions will. 
not descend upon it. I know that the years bring to 
us pain and sorrow ; that no man's experience is com- 
plete except anguish have done its work upon him; , 
I know that there come times in the life of every one 
of us, when God seems to have deserted us, and hope 
is dead. The night season forms a fearful period in the 
life of all ; and then the heart of cheer seems a mock- 
ery, and the voice of music a cruel jest. But it is not 
so ; believe me, it is not so. Patience, content and ^ 
hope are the lessons then set us to learn ; and to him 
that learnelh, God giveth songs in the night. With 
that man it is well ; for this is wisdom, the price of 
which is above rubies. ,; 

I cannot better conclude than by a noble poem, the '; 
work of a gifted countrywoman of our own, and yet 
attributed by many in this country and in England, 
to the great singer himself. The lines were composed 
by Elizabeth Lloyd, a lady of Philadelphia ; and are 
supposed to be written by Milton in his blindness : 

" I am old and blind — 

Men point to me as smitten by God's frown — 
Afflicted and deserted of my kind ; 
Yet I am not cast down, 

" I am weak, yet strong ; 

I murmur not. that I no longer see ; 
Poor, old, and helpless, I the more belong, 
Father supreme, to thee. 



133 



" Oh, merciful One ! 

When men are furthest, then thou art most near ; 
When friends pass by, my weakness shun, — 
Thy chariot I hear. 

" Thy glorious face 

Is leaning towards me, and its holy light 
Shines in upon my lonely dwelling-place, 
And there is no more night. 

" On my bended knee 

I recognize thy purpose clearly shown : 
My vision thou hast dimmed, that I may see 
Thyself, thyself alone. 

" I have nought to fear — 

This darkness is the shadow of thy wing, 
5eneath it I am almost sacred ; here 
Can come no evil thing. 

" Oh, I seem to stand 

Trembling, where foot of mortal ne'er hath been, 
Wrapt in the radiance of that sinless land 

Which eye hath never seen. 

" Visions come and go — 

Shapes of resplendent beauty round me throng ; 
From angel lips I seem to hear the flow 
Of soft and holy song. 

" It is nothing now, 

When Heaven is opening on my sightless eyes, 
When airs from Paradise refresh my brow. 
That earth in darkness lies. 



134 SONGS m THE NIGHT. 

" In a purer clime 

My being fills with rapture ; waves of thought 
Roll in upon my spirit — strains sublime, 
Break over me unsought. 

" Give me now my lyre, 

I feel the stirrings of a gift divine, 
Within my bosom glows unearthly fire, 
Lit by no skill of mine." 



J 



AN HOUR'S TALK ABOUT WOMAN. 



AN HOUR'S TALE ABOUT WOMAN. 



jtTEYER has there been a period in the history of our 
country, when social questions excited so profound 
and general an interest as at the present hour. The 
mind of the country seems to be in an almost anar- 
chical condition. Speculatists are rife ; theories with- 
out end throng the path of the intellectual inquirer ; 
and the school, the state, the family, the church, are 
in turn questioned as to the reasons and justifications 
of their existence. The voice of denunciation is loud 
in the land against existing institutions, in advocacy 
of a complete change and wiser re- organization in all 
the objects of our belief, in all the forms of our life. 
Never was there the same petulant and resentful cru- 
sade waged against the memories of the past, against 
what are called in derision " time-honored institu- 
tions." N^ot the least loudly and warmly discussed 
of these topics is what has com^ to be styled the 
*' woman question." Its importance will justify any 
amount of consideration, even the largest ; but it is 

13T 



138 AN hour's talk about WOMAN". 

questionable if that importance will vindicate the atti- 
tude and style assumed by some of the disput- 
ants. It may be the prejudice of an " old fogy ; " bul 
nevertheless, one shrinks from seeing a woman expos- 
ing herself upon the rostrum, or at the dinner-table, 
in the act of speech-making, subjected to the jeers 
and hisses of an idle and vulgar crowd, or gaining 
the equivocal applause of a rabid and fanatical min- 
ority. Let us confess that it does violence to our pre- 
judices, or to something deeper and holier, to hear 
a woman's voice strained and cracked, in the attempt 
to galvanize an audience into the acceptance of her 
formulas, or into an enthusiasm of sympathy. 

That women have their rights, and, what is unfor- 
tunately true, their wrongs, great, deep, and terrible, 
no fair minded man can question. Possibly it may 
be a matter of taste, possibly a deeper difference, which 
divides us from the feminine agitators. Let us leave 
these imitators of Demosthenes, these matrons — or 
maidens — who are emulous of the renown of Cicero, ] 
to their platforms and conventions, in undisputed pos- 
session of their ill-timed and unfortunate celebrity ; 
and spend a little time quietly and after our own 
fashion, in considering the aspect of woman's sphere 
and woman's duties. 

While radicalism is vengefully trumpeting the 
doom of the present order of things, is with pomp 
and circumstance heralding the new creation, 



THEIR VARIOUS EXPOUNDERS. 139 

iwhich is to emerge from the debris of the pre- 
Jjsent, conservatism, upon the other hand, is apt to 
igratulate itself upon the Christian tone, temper and 
spirit of onr age and country, intimating, if not di- 
jPectly avowing, that among certain communities as- 
jsembled in Christian sanctuaries, and associated in 
'divers angelic organizations, the law given by the 
;!N^azarene is fully recognized and implicitly obeyed, 
and that in virtue of the savor of this, the only genuine 
salt of the earth, the state of society is about as good 

I and happy as the possibilities will permit. The one 
class of interpreters would assure u.s that the family, 
■ on its present basis, is a sham ; that marriage is a le- 
gal prostitution ; that woman is a slave. The other 
exponents of the life of the world are disposed to in- 
sist that the family is a paradisiacal state, and that the 
I laws, immunities and circumstances of women are 
^admirably adapted to their situation, needing no im- 
'provement. "Christian America "is a comj^liment 
not seldom bestowed upon our self-admiring country- 
tmen, by their elegant and accurate orators. As a 
practical commentary upon the Christianity of Ameri- 
ca, let me invite your attention to two classes of our 
women — I mean the poor and the outcasts. It is an 
inquiry to which you are urged by self-interest as well 
as humanity ; for amongst our raj)id mutations, our 
sudden changes of position and fortune, no man can 
tell how soon his o.wn wife and daughters may be 



140 



dragged into the garrets of the one, or hurled into the 
hells of the other. 

What are the resources available to a woman who 
is obliged to get her own bread ? To teach, to stand 
behind a counter, to sew, to wash. The endowments 
and attainments of a small class open to them the 
competition for the uncertain prizes of literature ; a 
lottery, by the way, where the blanks fearfully out- 
number the prizes. Sad enough is the state of any 
one who must write for bread ; pitiable to the last 
degree, as it seems to me, is the condition of a woman 
forced to this extremity ; but what shall I say of the 
other chances which are open to women ? What is 
the attitude of society towards them ? That of a cham- 
pion to defend or to espouse their cause ? That of 
a friend to cheer or succor ? That of an acquain- 
tance even, to recognize with an approving smile and 
bow ? I hazard little in declaring that the relation is 
that of a taskmaster and oppressor. Hundreds of 
places of easy employment and remunerative profit, 
the duties of which could be perfectly performed by 
women, are now usurped by men ; and within the 
narrow boundaries allotted to women, hard indeed is 
the work, and trifling the compensation. Let a man 
and a woman, equally versed in the science of music, 
equally gifted to instruct in its art, seek professional 
employment in teaching it. He will command a 
remuneration of from one-third to two-thirds more 



OLD INFLUENCES NOT YET REMOVED. 141 

^'than slie. The world degrades the sex into inferior- 
[ itj, and women themselves are apt to be the iirst in 
rlinflicting this indignity. The rule here stated holds 
good in other spheres of labor. A male cook will 
receive from two to ten times as much as a woman ; 
and a tailor can live in comfort, and even make a for- 
tune ; while a shirt-maker gains scanty subsistence, 
or is reduced to the verge of starvation. Stern and 
angry as the vengeful IN^emesis, appears to be the fate 
'presiding over those women, who must gain their 
('daily bread by daily toil. The terrible scenes and 
ifacts upon which the eyes of the world were first 
'opened, and in favor of which the world's best sym- 
pathies were invoked by that noble man, Thomas 
Hood, have not yet been banished or annihilated from 
our centres of civilization and refinement. There are 
to-day in New York, and in other cities throughout the 
land, many gaunt and haggard forms, worn to the bone 
by want and wretchedness, who might with fearful 
truth and propriety recite as the tale of their own life, 
the " Song of the Shirt." And yet we are a most 
Christian people, and live in a most Christian age ! 
What a fearful exposition of the workings and char- 
acteristics of our civilization, is presented to every 
pedestrian upon Broadway after nightfall ! Bedizened 
forms, brazen faces, hoarse or metallic voices, which in 
themselves announce the sin of their owners, and attest 
their curse, greet us at every step. And these are 



142 



women wJbose infant brows were bedewed by as gentle 
tears as ever fell from our own mothers' eyes ; whose 
childish steps were watched with as tender a solicitude ; 
whose way was consecrated by as constant and fervent 
prayers ! All these were once inmates of homes such 
as our daughters have ; and now they are wanderers, 
with a brand upon their brow, more accursed and with- 
ering than Cain's. They have forfeited respect, affec- 
tion, hope, heaven. They are doomed to the worm 
that dieth not, and to the fire that is not quenched. 
ITot only does their own conscience thunder the curses 
of the violated law, and guilt enfold them in its dark 
robe, but society declares their crime unpardonable. 
For that sin in a woman there is no remission. For 
man, however, there is plenteous grace and fullest 
absolution. The serpent enters the bower ; he assails 
the weakest yet strongest part of her nature ; not 
openly — for one glance of her maiden innocence would 
blast him — but with guile. The language of love is 
used ; the power of love is wrested from its divine 
agency, to be made a hellish instrument. Confidence, 
and the heart's most sacred feelings are won. Then 
comes the ruin ; and the God of this world — our most ; 
Christian society— drives the woman forth from Eden 
to wander a fugitive and an outcast, but receives the 
snake into its most cherished embrace. The woman 
is condemned to woe, world without end ; but the 
man is accepted as an ornament of our best society. 



143 



We introduce him to our wives and daughters ; if his 
srimes are spoken of we significantly hint at " wild 
f)ats," or speak in studied phrase of " youthful indis- 
jretions." Mamma suggests that all young men are 
i little wdld, but marriage cures them of that ; and 
)ur young ladies think him only the more interesting 
because he is esteemed a " fast young man." You 
inowingly permit the roue to embrace your daughter 
tn the dance ; you entrust her to his care in long 
ivalks and rides ; you permit the seducer to lead your 
laughter to the altar, and give him your paternal 
plessing ; and at the same time soothe yourself into 
omplacency at being one of a " most respectable 
people," and a " most Christian society." The fair 
image of God is despoiled and shattered, and the icon- 
oclast is accepted as respectable and worthy. 

Oh, the weary foot-falls and despairing hearts among 
;he graves of the five-and-twenty thousand lost 
women of the city of New-York ! Their mournful 
dirge has been sung by the same great-hearted poet 
who awoke the strains of the Song of the Shirt. Le+ 
him tell the fate of one of them, for it is the story of 
the class : 

" Alas for the rarity 
Of Christian charity 

Under the sun ! 
Oh, it was pitiful! 
Near a whole city full, 
Home she had none. 



144 



" Sisterly, brotherly, 
Fatherly, motherly, 

Feelings had changed ; 
Love, by harsh evidence 
Thrown from its eminence ; 
Ever God's providence 

Seeming estranged. 

" Where the lamps quiver 
So far in the river, 

With many a hght 
From window and casement, 
From garret to basement. 
She stood with amazement, 

Houseless by night. 

*' The bleak wind of March 

Made her tremble and shiver ; 
But not the dark arch, 

the black flowing river : 
Mad from life's history. 
Glad to death's mystery 

Swift to be hurled — 
Anywhere, anywhere 

Out of the world ! 

" In she plunged boldly 
No matter how coldly 

The dark river ran, — 
Over the brink of it. 
Picture it, think of it 

Dissolute man! 
Lave in it, drink of it 

Then, if you can ! 



"the bridge of sighs." M5 

Take her up tenderly, 

Lift her with care, 
Fashioned so slenderly, 

Young, and so fair ! 

" Ere her limbs frigidly 
Stiffen too rigidly. 

Decently — kindly — '■ 
Smooth and compose them ; 
And her eyes, close them. 
Staring so blindly ! 

"Dreadfully staring 

Through muddy impurity. 
As when with the daring 
Last look of despairing. 
Fixed on futurity. 

** Perishing gloomily 
Spurred by contumely, 
Cold inhumanity, 
Burning insanity, 

Into her rest. — 
Cross her hands humbly, 
As if praying dumbly 

Over her breast ! 

" Owning her weakness, 
Her evil behavior, 
And leaving with meekness 
Her sins to her Saviour!" 

When tragedies more terrible than any performed 
.in the mimic representations of the stage, atrocious 

7 



1^6 



in their inception, harrowing and ruinous in their 
close, wherein a human soul is lost beyond remedy, 
are taking place all around us, can we felicitate our- i 
selves upon the happy and prosperous state of our ' 
social structure, or deny that there are grave evils, , 
demanding our prompt recognition, and such earnests 
and thorough remedial action as we may be able to 
adopt ? 

Let me invite you to the consideration of the fol- 
lowing proposition, with the practical application to 
be made of it. In proportion as we recognize more 
fully the truest work and culture of human life, we 
shall appreciate the sphere and influence of woman. 
The wiser man becomes, the more clearly does he see 
that his true strength lies not in the physical or intel- 
lectual side of his nature, but in his moral and emo- 
tional powers. We boast, and the vaunt seems just, of 
the achievements of mind, of its conquests over the ma- 
terial creation. The iron horse, with his breath of fire, 
his sinews of steel, his voice of thunder, and tread as 
of armies, has been harnessed into our service. His 
pace narrows the continents almost into hand-breadths. 
His speed upon the deep renders " the wings of the 
wind " an antiquated figure. The lightning is arrested 
in its wild flash, and tamely submits to carry our 
messages. The subtlest and mightiest forces of the 
universe are made purveyors to our necessities and to 
our luxuries. Commerce has belted the world with a 



TRUE POWER LIES NOT IN THE PHYSICAL. 147 

fj fairer and richer zone tlian ever clasped the waist of 
tjCytherea. Light, heat, electricity, galvanism, are 
F I chained captives to the wheels of the conqueror, as 
he sweeps along in his triumphal procession. As we 
watch this royal pageant, with swelling hearts and 
praiseful voices, we exclaim, How noble, how divine 
a thing is man ! But he is still a victim of infirmity, 
disease, and death. A grain of sand may blind him ; 
the meanest insect may inflict a fatal wound. He 
may bridge the ocean, but he cannot purchase im- 
munity from pain. He may count the stars, and 
weigh them ; but ague shrivels and tortures him, and 
fever scathes him with its fiery breath. In the midst 
of his triumphs he is oppressed by the consciousness 
that infinity stretches far away beyond him, untouched 
land unattainable. Even could he raise himself im- 
measurably above his present pinnacle — could he 
master the forces that now evade him — could he mar- 
shal! the stars into his service — he must still call 
destruction his mother, and the worm his sister. The 
grandest exploits of the intellect more display its 
weakness than its strength. Its richest stores of know- 
ledge only prove to it its poverty. The saddening 
consciousness of ignorance has ever been esteemed 
the first step to understanding ; and those men that 
have travelled the widest circuits in the pursuit of 
truth, have ended their journey with the conviction 
of how little they knew. " He that increaseth know- 



148 



II 



ledge increaseth sorrow ;" " Much study is a weariness 
to the flesh." These sayings were not new in the 5 
time of Solomon, nor are they old to-day. l 

I would not undervalue man's mental qualities, or ■; 
the attainments of our scholarship or science, butt; 
would simply urge that his loftiest strength, thej 
divinest part of himself, is not upon that side of his 
nature. These are to be found in his capacity to do 
good — -to exercise himself in alleviating the sorrows ^\ 
— in elevating the condition of others — and not only 
so, but in the disposition and settled purpose thus to 
dedicate his energies. There is no man so humble 
that a career of benevolence is not noble to him ; no 
attainments too moderate for even open usefulness in 
this service. Two mites, the offering of a lonely yet 
loving heart, commemorated by one who appreci- 
ated moral excellence as infinitely above all other 
power, are held as a priceless treasure in the heart of 
the world, whilst the magnificent temple, in whose 
treasury the offering was deposited, has disappeared 
from the earth, leaving only a mournful tale and 
moral. "We treasure the memory of the one brief and 
simple story of the box of spikenard, offered by a 
woman's affection, more than all the Eabbinical learn- 
ing of the Talmud and Cabala — more than the whole 
body of the Jewish theology. Plutarch has trans- 
mitted to us the record of nearly all that were illus- 
trious in action, celebrated in wisdom, renowned for 



THE MOEAL GREATER THAN THE INTELLECTUAL. 149 

eloquence or virtue, among generals, statesmen, phi- 
losophers and orators of antiquity. Yet what is the 
value of all the classic memories from the pen of 

I Trajan's preceptor, as compared with the unaffected 
recital by publicans and fishermen of the life of one 
who seemed to be a Jewish peasant ? The emblaz- 
onry of genius, the splendor of art, the fame of wis- 
dom and of arms fade like the stars at dawn, at the 
humble narrative of a life which was spent in doing 
good. "We admire Demosthenes and Scipio ; with 
curious study we pry into the life of Socrates and the 

I writings of Plato ; but we revere and love the friend 
of harlots and sinners. If the history of the last 
twenty centuries teaches us anything, it is that man's 
duty is to be found in imitating the life of Jesus — in 

I acquiring the mind that was in him. He is the stand- 
ard of character ; by his life and words we yet judge 
of manners and principles, in the heart of the most 
polished civilization. 

Compare two of the men of the last century. The 
one was a Frenchman ; graceful in manners, of 
charming address, a favorite of courts, brilliant in 
wit, vivacious in conversation, the soul of every gay 
circle, possessed of acute intelligence, diligence in 
study, subtlety and discrimination in criticism ; he 
was the prince of a sect of philosophers then all power- 
ful, now almost forgotten — the Encyclopedists. His 
life was passed between the court and the cloister; now 



150 AN hour's talk about woman. 

amid the dazzling glare of royal pomp and pageant, ij 
then immnred within a lonely cell, his only compan- 
ions books and the midnight lamp. He was flat- 
tered by the most brilliant and fashionable women of 
the time ; his mots were the most arrowy and 
sparkling of a period renowned for witty men. His 
society was conrted by the great ; his company was 
coveted by kings ; scholars songht his opinions, as 
the ancient Greeks consulted the oracle at Delphi. 
He was the idol of the popnlace ; he entered Paris in 
triumphal procession. One might almost say with- 
out hyperbole, that the worlds of fashion, of letters, 
of science, and of art, were at the feet of this dictator. 
And what was the end ? He retired from the court 
of Frederic the Great, where he had been received 
by that monarch with almost royal honors, declaring 
that his only business there had been to wash the 
king's dirty linen.* He dedicated his great powers, 
his unequalled wit, eloquence, learning, and well-nigh 
matchless style, together with a long life, to what he 
called an endeavor to free his country and the world 
from the thraldom of superstition, from the domina- 
tion of despotism — to what really was wicked though 
unconscious partnership with the Grand Monarque, 
which gave to his country the French Eevolution, and 
to Europe a war of five and twenty years, which cost 

* Referring to his attempts at correcting the king's poetical and 
other literary compositions. 



JOHN HOWAED THE PHILANTHROPIST. 151 

1 France alone more than one thousand millions of dol- 
I lars and three millions of men. 

I Such is Yoltaire ; a monument to teach the world 
■ what is an intellect without a heart. 

John Howard was an English shop-boy, and in after 
\ life an English farmer ; with so little education that 
I he could neither write nor speak correctly ; with 
] intellect so narrow and moderate that it scarcely 
j deserves the designation of mediocre ; slow and 
stammering of speech, with a constitution shat- 
1 tered by life-long disease, the victim of constant 
1 pain and feebleness. One might almost say he had 
nothing but a heart and an iron will, together with a 
practical shrewdness, the heir-loom of the commer- 
cial classes of England. Kings sought the friendship 
of this man and had their overtures declined. Courtly 
and noble throngs tried to pay him honor, but he 
shrank from their saloons and their homage ; his place 
was not with them. His realm was the prison world 
of Europe ; his study was the dungeon, within whose 
dark and noisome cells he stooped over crushed and 
dying men, to see if he could not read in their glazing 
eyes some intimation of God's image, which he might 
interpret to their fellows without, more prosperous and 
more innocent, and thereby bring these forgotten men 
and brethren within the pale of human sympathy. 
He shunned the abodes of the great and the praise 
of men; but made the lazar-house his dwell- 



152 AN hour's talk about woman. 

ing-place, and companioned with the victims of the 
plague. Wherever men groaned in a captivity worse 
than death, or suffered from injustice, calamity, and 
pestilence, wherever were shrieks whose piercing 
agony drives the cold blood back to the heart, or sights 
whose revolting cruelty makes the heart itself stand I 
still, thither he came as a merciful witness, as a swift 
angel. His office was the instauration of modern 
philanthropy. 

Let any one tell me, which was the nobler man 
which the grander life ? "What duty of gratitude does 
the world owe the gifted Frenchman? What age 
shall forget the unlettered Englishman, whose work 
was to find those who were sick, naked and impris- 
oned, and then to visit, comfort, and relieve them ? 
To give a cup of cold water to famished lips in the 
spirit of human brotherhood is a more majestic and 
glorious act, than to write an Encylopedia where the 
object is worldly distinction or remuneration. To 
speak a true word of forgiveness to one who has in- 
jured you, is a sublimer act than to have gained the 
victory of Austerlitz. 

The self-educating power of a good life is worth an 
instant's consideration. Whatever the influence of 
our conduct upon others may be, its effect upon out- 
selves is yet greater. The most fearful result of false- 
hood is its destruction of the principle and capacity 
of truth in ourselves. Dissimulation deceives no man 



SELF-EDirOATION. 153 

SO mucli as him who practises it ; and whatever the 
gambler's winnings, he loses more than he gains. 
The rogue cheats not only his dupe but himself ; and 
the thief steals from himself an infinitely more valu- 
,able treasure than from the man he robs. Upon 
the other hand it is more blessed to give than 
to receive. A kind word, a generous action, a self- 
forgetting heroism of afiection, the devotion of 
patience, self-control and magnanimity, shed a sense 
more deep and precious on the soul from which they 
come, than upon that to which they are offered. He 
who argues for truth, and not for victory, will convince 
his neighbor of the right, and at the same time gain 
candor, and openness of mind. He who deals fairly, 
walks humbly, shows mercy, blesses others, but him- 
self more. To spend a life of disinterestedness and 
self-sacrificing love is the divinest education on this 
earth. " He that watereth shall be watered himself ;" 
for charity liberalizes the nature which practises it ; 
and goodness to the owner, is a ready treasure, secured 
" where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt, and where 
thieves do not break through nor steal." Whatever 
I hindrances society may cast in the way of our intel- 
lectual culture, however it may interfere with the 
attainment of such other goals as we may have set for 
ourselves, it can raise no insuperable obstacles between 
ourselves and moral excellence. The stedfast pur- 
pose, the unconquerable will, generosity of temper, 

7* 



154: AN HOUe's talk ABOUT WOMAN. 

the large forgiving mind, sweetness and kindliness of 
spirit, belong to no one condition — are appropriated j 
to no one estate. Men of low degree can have their ' 
patent of nobility as well as, perhaps better than ; 
those born in kings' honses. The serene light of self- i 
control, and the lofty character, may shine as brightly ; 
in the lowly dwelling of the poor as in the mansions 
of the rich. The t^ ork of human life is benevolence ; 
the end of hnman culture is character. As these 
truths are appreciated, and realized more and more 
fully, by the widening consciousness of society, in 
that proportion will society recognize woman's true 
sphere and influence. I thus declare because I am 
fully persuaded that to woman herself it is given to be 
lirst to comprehend and interpret the great truths of 
human life, as well as to initiate and exemplify 
the practice thereof. True, hers is not the philosophic 
mind, using the phrase in the scholastic sense. She 
may not be summoned to ascend the rugged side of 
the mount that might be touched and that burned with 
fire ; and tarry long days and nights, amid gloomy soli- 
tudes, enveloped by the darkening cloud, scared by 
the fierce flashes of the lightning, and the yet more 
terrible revealings of the Divine majesty; and to 
bring thence the mighty words which are to govern 
the world forever. But it is hers to treasure those 
apparently impracticable commands within her inmost 
heart and in the fullness of time to interpret and to 



HER SPHERE. 155 

declare them. When God would inaugurate the reign 
of sympathy and tenderness, his angels appear to 
women. They receive them with modest confidence, 
and accept their tidings with grateful joy. Men 
jgcoff at the credulity of the weaker sex and 
j decline the heavenly message. Whilst- the mouths 
of Mary and Elizabeth are filled with grateful words 
giving glory to God, their hearts resting in tranquil 
assurance 'that the hour of the world's grace is come. 
Zachariah stands confused and dumb, crippled by his 
own infidelity. Without arguing and without gain- 
saying, the heart of woman receives the profound and 
sublime truths of human existence, and almost with- 
out reflective consciousness, she sets herself to perform 
the duties which they enjoin. Man's more scientific 
eye may discern abstract and speculative truth more 
clearly and decisively than hers ; but her chaster and 
purer spirit discerns the practical and practicable 
truths of human life with a clearer comprehension 
than man's. Let a human soul but once completely 
realize the dignity of its vocation, feel the sublime 
tasks and spheres to which it is called ; will it not 
give itself to enter upon them ? It steps may falter, 
its courage may waver, its progress may be slow ; 
but every step taken shortens the distance between 
it and its goal ; every effort made to gain the goal is 
a pledge that it shall be reached at length. Human 
progress is a slow and toilsome journey. The caravan 



of humanity proceeds by short and painful stages. 
Israel spent forty years in the desert ; the journey 
from Goshen to Canaan can be performed in less than 
a week. At times it may seem that our path is 
retrograde ; but history is a barren and unprofitable 
study, if it does not assure us that the march of man 
is forward. Every generation is wiser and better 
than its predecessors ; there may be fewer demigods 
towering like obelisks between ourselves and heaven, 
to catch and herald the earliest dawn ; but there are 
fewer obstacles between the eyes of the rising masses 
and the glowing East. Woman has ever been the 
first to know what she can do, and what her heart 
divines her lips will speak and her hands will show. 
Fulfilling the duties of a lowlier sphere, she is inevi- 
tably advanced to a higher. Duty done not only in- 
creases the strength of the character, but purges 
the eyes of the soul. Seeing more clearly, she 
works more nobly; working more nobly she sees 
more clearly still. Thus, in twenty centuries, has she 
advanced from the estate of the drudging Martha of 
Bethany, untaught in literature, unrefined in man- 
ners, toiling without possibility of elevation, " cum- 
bered with much serving," the mere slave of man's 
appetites, or the toy of his caprice, to the sacred and 
venerable standing of our mothers, to the beautiful 
and beloved relation of our wives. 

In the early ceixturies of our era our Teuton an- 



j ANCIENT AND MODERN WOMEN. 157 

cestors purchased their wives for a pair of oxen, and 
then presented their ladies fair with a horse, a shield 
and a spear. The chaste mothers of the barbarian 
lordes accompanied their husbands upon their warlike 
expeditions, and when their lords were recreant in the 
fight, with brandished arms and threatening cries they 
di'ove them back to the field again, to win victory or 
find an honorable grave. If the fate of the day were 
adverse, the women of the host fell by their own hands, 
preferring suicide to captivity and dishonor. Com- 
pare the lot of those Amazon warriors of the Hercy- 
Dian forest with that of their daughters in England 
and America to-day. Think of the weird pro- 
phetess Yelleda, sitting in her ancient tower near the 
lEhine, inciting the soul of the bold Batavian Civilis 
to revolt against the Roman power, by her auguries 
and oracles, encouraging his followers to deeds of hero- 
ism by sibylline utterances and songs ; think of her 
in contrast with our own Mrs. Browning, melting us 
to tenderness by her plaintive " Cry of the Children," 
or rousing us to unconquerable resolution by her high 
heroic verse. 

But if you shrink from the golden haired daughters 
of the Rhine and Danu.be as barbarians, weather- 
beaten, vociferous and disgusting ; cast your eyes for a 
moment upon the Roman dames, the stately high- 
bred ladies of the conquerors of the world. The 
[ commonest type of their female character, as repre- 



158 AN hour's talk about woman. 

sented by Messalina, Faustina, Theodora, is so infam- 
ous and brutal tbat description would be impossible. 
As an occasional exception, you have womanly nature, 
fashioned after the model of Stoical philosophy ; an- 
nihilating sensibility, seeking apathy as perfection, 
and cherishing a haughty pride as the only solid vir- 
tue. Compare Arria, handing the dagger, reek- 
ing with her own heart's blood, to her husband^ 
that he might join her in suicide, with the assurance, 
by way of encouraging him, "It is not painful, 
Psetus," with Florence Nightingale at Scutari, whose 
conduct reflects brighter lustre upon the English name 
than all the laurels won in the Crimea. There is no 
more striking historic evidence of Christianity than that 
fm-nished by the change which it has wrought in the 
condition of woman. The distance between the condi- 
tion of the Jewish, Teutonic and Roman women at the 
beginning of this era, and that of the women of our 
time, is almost incalculable. Along the path of eleva- 
tion and redemption, she has been led by the divine 
hand of Christ. He was the first to appreciate her 
woes and wants ; he was the first to ofi'er the remedy 
for her wrongs ; his gospel is the only philosophy 
which recognizes her value, and which points out her 
true sphere ; his spirit is the only guide to lead her to 
duty and to blessedness. 

Let us now attempt a m'bre specific answer to the 
question, " What is woman's sphere ?" I do not seek to 



169 



pierce the mysteries of the future ; to lay bare the 
orders of society which the new ages shall produce. I 
have no wishto amuse you by speculations upon Utopia. 
My desire is to look calmly and seriously at the struc- 
ture of our own society — to discern, if it may be, what 
,iare the fairest theatres and possibilities for woman. 

I say, then, that they are literature, society, and 
home. These are her limits. If they are too nar- 
I'ow for her aspiring powers, then must her genius be 
cramped and fettered, and she must willingly accept 
•as her fate the derision of the vulgar and the just 
[condemnation of the best portion of mankind. 

The purpose of this discussion does not require 
that I should enter upon an analysis of woman's 
faculties ; nor is it necessary, in an age when not a 
few of our gi*andest works of genius have come from 
women, to demonstrate their capacity for literature. 
It is not their want of original endowment that 
women complain of; but they urge that there is no 
time to read books or to write them. Is this apolo- 
getic reproach — set up both as an excuse and a 
reflection upon the trammels ^by which they are 
hampered— justified by the facts, when used by the 
mass of women in America? Tliere are none so 
poor that the opportunities of education are not 
offered them. Our scheme of common and high 
school education is adapted to the exigencies of the 
female as well as of the masculine intellect. As 



160 



large a proportion of the girls of the country are 1 
be found in school as of the boys. As much mone 
is expended, and I am led to believe, from sue 
information as I have been able to collect, more, fc 
their training and accomplishment than for those o 
the boys. There are abundant opportunities for ou 
young women between the time they leave schoo 
and that when they are married, to improve an( 
cultivate themselves for the genial pursuits of litera 
tm-e ; and yet, for the most part, what are th( 
results? Fashion and folly. Can it be said witl 
fairness that our young women have literary culture 
artistic taste, or any of that refinement and elevatior 
of manner, sentiment, and mind, which their advan- 
tages justify us in demanding of them? They are 
taught to read, but who of them reads well ? Any | 
one who has not had occasion to observe with spe- 
cial care the style of reading peculiar to our young 
ladies, would be astounded to discover how ungrace- 
ful, stammering and bungling it is in the majority off 
cases; and this, let it be remembered, after they 
have left school. I do not believe I exaggerate 
when I say that you can find half a dozen or half ai 
score of creditable performers on the piano, for one - 
who can read properly, and with the power of 
interpreting her author to the listener, among the 
graduates of our female academies and seminaries. 
Hundreds of thousands of dollars are annually spent 



EDUCATION CEASES WITH SCHOOL. 161 

in this country for the purpose of giving our daugh- 
ters instruction in music; and yet what does it 
amount to? A small number comparatively master 
the rudiments of the science ; a smaller number yet 
are so far cultivated as to perform with taste and 
feeling, whilst the number of those who become 
thoroughly imbued with the love of the art and the 
appreciation of its principles and powers, is so small 
as absolutely to astound one. After the lessons of 
the master have ceased, in many homes the piano is 
:^pened only upon state occasions. The immense 
responsibilities and engrossing cares of flirting banish 
the disposition for music. The young lady renounces 
art for arts. And when the husband is gained, a 
few evenings within the first year or two may be 
enlivened by an occasional strain ; but the wail of 
the first infant silences the strings of the instrument, 
aad the piano remains closed until our friend's 
daughter comes to take her place upon the stool. 
All girls of " genteel families " are thus taught music; 
but where are the musicians ? 

In this country, where books are preeminently 
cheap, and where they are to be found in every 
household of even moderate means, no young woman 
of the middle or wealthier classes can truly say that 
she is unable to form an acquaintance with the best 
authors. The poets, the essayists, the best novelists, 
are all within their reach. But do they read them ? 



162 AN hoijk's talk about woman. 

A space of two or more years is by courtesy suppose 
to intervene between the damsel's leaving school an] 
her entrance upon the duties of married life ; ye 
how much substantial reading is done within one o: 
those years ? That some reading is done is evident 
for the immense circulation of the magazines and flasl 
literature plainly declares that there must be i 
demand where there is such a supply. But does i 
often enter into the brains of the maidens, that Gib 
bon, Hume, Eobertson ; that Guizot, Bancroft, Pres 
cott, Grote and Mebuhr are fit reading for them 
They assure you that history is flat, stale, unprofitable 
that for their part they can get enough of it from th< 
Waverley novels. The inspired old masters of th( 
lyre are too stiff, antiquated, pedantic, for them. 
Moore's lyrics are more to their taste. They maj 
languish in sentimental sympathy or glow wit! 
ardent passion over the pages of the author of 
Manfred, but they decline an invitation from the bard 
of Rydal Mount, to bear him company to the cool grot- 
toes, the calm majestic scenes of Nature. Milton and 
Gray they parsed at school, and the acquaintance thus 
acquired serves them for the remainder of their life. 
Shakspeare— except in Bowdler's edition— is a book 
not fit to be in any lady's library. So our young ladies 
dawdle about the house until it is time to receive 
company or to pay visits; after which they spin 
street yai-n by the*hank. Dinner and a nap prepare 



FRIVOLITY A PREY AILING EYIL. 163 

em. for tlie serious occupation of the'evening — the 
.tertainment of a certain number of young gentle- 
len who are dignified by the appellation of 
beaux." Thus the day is passed; and those who 
.end it in this fashion assure me with a seriousness 
^at is really comical, that " they have no time to 
lad." Can it be denied that the toilet and the men 
•e the two influences of absorbing interest to the 
LESS of young American women between the ages 
f sixteen and twenty? Time enough is wasted by 
lost of them before the looking-glass within five 
ears, to bring them in to appreciative acquaintance 
dth the best authors of ancient and modern times. 
Inough interest and animation are expended upon 
illy laughing at sillier jests, to put them into inti- 
late intercourse with the masters of the Greek and 
,atin literatures. Enough money is squandered in 
be United States, within every ten years, upon the 
ausical education of young ladies who have no 
ausical capacity, to place a select and excellent 
ibrary of the best authors in nearly every household 
Q the land. Let us suppose that one of our girls, 
eaving school, determines to devote two hours per 
lay to reading, and that she resolutely perseveres for 
I twelvemonth. At the rate of thirty pages an hour 
—a moderate calculation — she will have carefully 
•ead at least Gibbon's, Eobertson's, Prescott's, Ban- 
sroft's, and Macaulay's historical works; or, allow- 



164: AN hour's TALK ABOUT WOMAN. 

ing for the greater speed with which Kght literatui 
is read, she will have gone throngh the Waverle 
novels and the works of Irving and Cooper. It is 
moderate compntation to allow ten thousand pages ( 
careful reading as the result from one hour a day. M 
young lady readers can multiply that amount by th 
number of hours they have for literary pursuits an( 
ascertain for themselves what number of excellent an 
valuable books they can consume within a year. 

One hour spent in writing an abstract for ever 
two devoted to reading, will enable them to embody ii 
an available form the fruits of their study, and at th 
same time cultivate a habit of composition. Non^ 
can imagine but those who have tried the experiment 
and reaped the reward, the agility and grace whicl 
the pen acquires from this kind of practice ; and thi 
is a mode of training and accomplishment within th( 
easy reach of five out of ten — shall I not say eigh 
out of ten ? — of all the school-girls in the Unitec 
States, and those who are leaving school. Let ui 
have done then with the empty apology that afte] 
their school-days our young women have not time for 
literary cultivation. 

Another serious obstacle besides those enumerated 
above is the scrappy style of reading too commonly 
adopted. We are so accustomed to paragraphs, stories, 
and review articles ; we can so easily and cheaplj 
acquire the material for superficial conversation in 



A STRICT REGARD OF TIME REQUIRED. 165 

jjciety ; that the attention wearies and the interest 
Lgs, in pursuing a regular course of reading. Hence 
I part the youthful womanly mind wants breadth, 
igor, solidity. Stedfastness of purpose must be 
^quired and practised here, as everywhere, if excel- 
kce be reached. The continued and studious pe- 
[sal of good writers, will not only enrich the memory 
^d fertilize the nature, but discipline the faculties to 
iteadiness and self-support which shall soothe and 
janquilize many a fevered and anxious hour in life 
come. For want of such beneficent discipline, 
•ge numbers of our married women degenerate into 
lusekeeping drudges or drones, with scarce a thought 
ove cooking and dusting, fallen into scandalmonger- 
g, or what is worse, into the wretched and painful 
larding-house life of towns and cities, sunk into in- 
igues, wantonness, and destruction. The care, 
ixiety, responsibility, which domestic life imposes, 
le want of culture, appreciation and healthful sym- 
athy almost inseparable from the woman's condition 
hthe fact that she must often walk the round of her 
uties alone, with none to help or cheer her, demand 
I compact fibre and clear decision, a resolute strength 
f nature. The radical elements of these she pos- 
Bsses as the gift of God. They may be ripened dur- 
ig her maiden life by close communion with the 
pirits of the great and good who have left the best 
.art of themselves in books. Blessed, indeed, is the 



166 



lot of the woman who crosses the threshold of mi 
ried life, cherishing in her heart the hallowed in 
ences and choicest inspiration of the sages and 
poets. 

It is impossible for us to calculate what female gen- 
ius is competent to perform in the world of letters ; 
but from what it has already done, what are we not 
justified in predicting ? It is safe to assert that no I 
two works of fiction produced within the last twenty 
years have made so profound an impression upon the 
mind of the civilized world as Jane Eyre and Uncle 
Tom's Cabin. I do not here propose the discussion 
of the merits and defects of either of these books, nor, 
associating with them the product of female literary 
mind in England and America within the same period, 
to collect the data for an inductive argument to set 
forth woman's capabilities for creation and composi- 
tion. It is sufficient for me to state what all know, that 
Miss Bronte and Mrs. Stowe have created a stronger 
interest in their characters, have more completely 
thrilled the hearts and kindled the sensibilities of their 
readers, than Bulwer, Dickens, or Thackeray. "What^ 
ever may be the defects of these books, as tried by the 
cold formulas C)f criticism, whatever maybe their weak- 
ness or errors, as attempts to delineate facts and life, 
however perverted and unjust you may claim their 
statements of reality to be, in my mind there is no 
doubt that thev are nobler works of art than have 



EARNESTNESS OF FEMALE AUTHORS. 167 

/ev been produced by the illustrious trio I have 
mentioned above. 

j The women are thoroughly in earnest. They write 
ecause they cannot help it. They use their pen to 
nburden their hearts. They must speak, or they 

onld die. The men have had a thousand advan- 
iiges which the women never possessed. But the 
foman's religious nature, the purpose of writing to 
enefit others, — a purpose of which she is only half 
DDscious ; — the coloring from the hues of her own 
leart, the tides of emotion, inundating the intellect, 
fting the thoughts, bearing them on as upon some 
rimming mighty current — these yield the woman 
mple compensation for her deficiencies. 

Were it necessary to vindicate the breadth and 
lasslveness of female genius, might I not point to 
Irs. Browning, to whom since the days of Milton, 
lere has been no superior, if an equal, in poetic sub- 
mity ? Kor is the loftiness of her thought and style 
ained by any sacrifice of delicacy and tenderness, 
'he woman's deep and gentle sensibility attempers 
7hat might otherwise be the dazzling glare of genius, 
>nd sheds upon her page a soft and holy light. While 
lie gives us in her chalices wine to nourish and in- 
rigorate strong men, there are motherly lays and 
■adences to soothe the heart of her sisters in distress. 
)he leads the poet by one hand up the broad aisle 
o the altar where he may perform the act of self- 



168 AN hour's talk about woman. 

consecration, and with the other she plants upon tt 
grave of a Httle child a sweetly blooming flower, whic 
those who have buried children will not willingly h 
die. There are other English women who may nc 
have received so great a meed of renown as tho? 
already mentioned, whose works, nevertheless, ar 
entitled to the best applause of men and women o 
all degrees. Such are Mrs. Gaskell, Miss Yong( 
Miss Mulock, and Mrs. Olyphant ; whose bool^ 
evince a careful and thorough culture, a nice discrin 
ination of character, and a complete literary exce 
lence, sufficient to add lustre to the name of an 
author of the time. With such examples challen^ 
ing our admiration, who will dare to disparag 
the capacities of woman for literature. 

There are two classes of composition for which th 
nature, experience and education of women peculiar! 
fit them ; I mean works for their own sex and fo 
children. The value of these, if they be equal to th 
claims of their subjects, and of those for whom the; 
are designed, can hardly be over-rated. The domes 
tic life of this country is in a fearful — not to say ai 
appalling — condition. The greedy pursuit of wealth i 
an almost universal characteristic of the men. Wive 
and mothers are well-nigh as eager in their desire fo 
the possession of gold as husbands and fathers 
Early married life is devoted to a daring race to gai) 
the prizes of Mammon. The middle life — age oi 



SrEFACISM. 169 

womanhood, is then given up to ostentation and vul- 
gar display. Great houses, sumptuously furnished ; 
costly equipages and trappings, magnificent surround- 
ings, where the possessors are the only dwarfs, seem 
to constitute for the mass of the women of America 
a perfect paradise — a paradise in prospect only ; for 
when the Eden is gained, the hot breath of a simoom 
has withered the verdure and the flowers, dried up 
the fountains, and slain the singing-birds ; and thence- 
forth there is only a desert of pride, show and extrava- 
gance. Among the thriving mercantile and commer- 
cial classes of this country, the statement may be 
ventured without fear of exaggeration, that there is 
little or no domestic life. 

"Who is defrauded by the mockeries which we call 
homes ? "Who suffers the wrong and loss ? Woman. 
How shall a revolution be wrought — a revolution in 
which mightier issues are involved than in any change 
of administrations or cabinets — a revolution upon 
which depend the vital interests of our individual 
and national life ? Women must fight this battle and 
win it ; with their pens, by their tongues, in their 
lives ; or the hopes of our ancestors and our own 
cherished anticipations for the future of our country 
must be bafiled and trodden under foot of men. 

A thoughtful woman once said to me, " My only 

1 literary ambition is to be able to write a book suited 

to my children." What nobler ambition could a 



170 



woman have ? Is it not a sphere worthy of an angel's 
selectest powers ? Let ns confess, without any wish 
to be invidious, that there are hardly any good books 
fit to be placed in the hands of little ones. We need 
books that shall have a serene and healthful influence 
upon the expanding minds of our children ; free from 
morbid excitement, from the quality of excessive 
stimulus : that shall nourish, not force ; that shall 
foster, not too hotly urge the already precocious 
mind of childhood in this country. When I think 
of the moral agencies constantly at work in educa- 
tion, agencies baptized by courtesy with the name of 
moral, when I think of the over stimulation of the 
mental and moral nature of our young people, I can 
but shudder at the thought of the result. The wits 
of infancy are sharpened from the cradle. Boys and 
girls are shrewd and cunning in short clothes. Arti- 
ficiality and self-consciousness become the fearful 
dower of youth, while it shonld be luxuriating in 
" the simple creed of childhood." I know of no more 
urgent demand in the whole field of literature, than 
for books which shall suit themselves to the familiar 
necessities of early life ; that shall tend to keep oui 
children young and fresh, full of genial heartiness, 
faith and enthusiasm. 

Man interprets character and life through the 
intellect. Imagination stands him instead of affec- 
tion. Woman appreciates and expounds through her 



WOMEN THE BEST LITERARY TNSTRTJOTOKS. lYl 

heart. Sensibility and sympathy may come to per- 
form as divine and majestic an office in conceiviDg 
a character, in apprehending it, and in adapting 
supplies to its necessities, as the regal power of imag- 
ination itself. Who can understand the wants and 
minister to the needs of childhood as completely and 
graciously as those who love it most ? The mother 
that pressed the infant upon her breast with inex- 
pressible tenderness, that hushed its cries with gentle 
lullaby and care, that soothed its early sorrows and 
gladdened its happiest hours by her sympathy and 
fondness ; to whose knee the little one always runs for 
refuge and succor ; into whose eye it looks up with 
nnfaltering confidence for counsel and approval ; aud 
whose own character has been ripened and enriched 
by these ceaseless ministrations of solicitude ; must 
not she be the best and holiest guide to lead its 
uncertain and wayward feet into the paths of knowd- 
edge and virtue ? I am satisfied that when we have a 
" Library of Choice Eeading " adapted to children, 
most if not all the books will have come from wo- 
men's pens — and hearts. 

Here, then, is the whole field of literature, an 
ample field, glorious as any which God ever 
vouchsafed to the tillage of man, open to the patient 
hopeful labor, to the untiring earnest care of woman. 
Iler sisters have wrought in it faithfully and well. 
Her natural endowments, her experience and position 



172 



qualify her pre-eminently for the task. The contri- 
butions of the past in the department of female liter- 
ature are only as the first fruits of the magnificent 
harvest which the future years shall garner. 

Society, as the sphere of woman's best exertions, next 
claims our consideration. It may be stated. with justice 
that the social life of this country is the reflected image 
of woman's character and culture. As a priestess, 
she presides at the shrine ; as a ruler she issues the 
laws ; and at the same time the interpretation and 
execution of these laws are intrusted to her. Holding 
her to this standard of responsibility, do we find good 
reason for complacency on her part or congratulation 
upon our own ? What are the facts which a candid 
inquiry into the form and force of American social 
life reveals to us ? 

In every community throughout our country there 
ia an association of men and women which takes the 
title of society ; and this, let it be recollected, is the 
thing which we are considering. By far the majority 
of the members of these circles are remarkable for 
their youth and inexperience ; and, as our country 
is a republic, the majority govern. Eusiness and 
professional men, and officials, are so absorbed 
by their pursuits or oppressed by labor, that they 
have little or no time for the recreation of friendly 
intercourse; and even when they attend a party, or 
enter the smaller group of the drawing-room, they 



A FAST AGE. 173 

are eitlier so jaded or so engrossed, that tliey scarce 
take any interest in the scenes and conversation 
transpiring about them. 

Manhood therefore finds itself represented on these 
occasions by those whose youth disqualifies them, or 
whose indolence and incapacity unfit them for the 
professions or the mart. Sophomorical inflation, and 
punctilious regard to the state of the hair, mousta- 
ches and linen, and almost equally scrupulous disre- 
gard of good breeding and manly behavior, the afi'ec- 
tation of little wickednesses and indulgence in great 
ones, with a fearful state of intellectual vacuity, may 
be accepted as the characteristics of these youthful 
gallants. Gentlemen of eighteen polk and flirt in 
our ball-rooms, talk all manner of indecency, perform 
all sorts of rudeness, and before the close of the even- 
ing are very probably so tipsy that they must be de- 
posited under the table or carried home. Gentlemen 
of one-and-twenty discourse to you gravely in the 
intervals of their pleasure-hunting, about the empti- 
ness of life and the world ; declaring that in their 
private opinion there is neither honor among men, 
nor chastity among women. They aver to you with 
a solemnity that amounts to drollery that they have 
seen the whole of life, and that they are now dis- 
gusted and hlases. And yet at the next party — which 
by the way they are as eager to attend as the first one 
to which they were invited — they will empty a saucer 



174 AN hour's talk about woman. 

of ice-cream under the table upon the host's Wilton 
carpet, in order to help themselves to chicken salad, 
and will gobble indiscriminately and extensively 
enough to impair the digestion of an ostrich. Seem- 
ing to realize that their virtue and brains reside in 
their heels, they give them ample exercise in the inde- 
cent motions of the "fancy dances." Now, how- 
ever, that these affectionate forms of pastime between 
the sexes are falling into disuse, it is to be feared 
that our society will be robbed of many of its choic- 
est ornaments. Ought not the charitable voice of 
the public to be raised in protest against the discoun- 
tenance of these lately fashionable amusements ? for 
what will become of the descendants of the heroes 
of the Revolution, if they are not allowed to dis- 
play their only accomplishment ? 

The conversation of society, amid the excited whirl 
of the ball, or in the quieter groups of the smaller 
re-unions, consists of idle gossip, idler tattle, and per- 
nicious scandal. And these goodly staples of dis- 
course are garnished with profane epithets and inter- 
jections, cant words and slang phrases, mumbled out 
in a half inarticulate style, and at frequent intervals 
choked by the speaker's laughing at his own smart 
things and queer conceits. This may be termed the 
general style of talk. The special kind is devoted to 
love-making ; not a whit more elegant and refined, it 
is more dangerous because more passionate. ISTeither 



woman's kesponsibilitt. 1Y5 

wife, mother nor maiden, are sacred in the eyes of these 
premature debauchees. With an effrontery that is 
only paralleled by their iniquity, they seek to flatter, 
cajole, entice and ruin women of every station in 
whose presence they are tolerated. How far they are 
successful is illustrated in part by the number of 
damaged reputations, separated husbands and wives, 
divorce cases, " elopements in high life," disgraced 
and abandoned young girls, with which the events 
of every year make us acquainted in " our best 
society." 

Who are chargeable with the toleration and coun- 
tenance of these juvenile dandies, rakes and block- 
heads ; with their admission and continuance in the 
spheres of social life ? I answer, the women. They 
knowingly receive a man with such attributes, per- 
forming such acts, and who should be branded with 
everlasting contempt, into their houses and at their 
parties ; they allow their attentions to themselves and 
their daughters ; and when they are spoken to on this 
subject they blandly reply that " all young men do 
such things." The strictly fashionable society of 
several of the principal cities of this country is fast 
becoming as corrupt and depraved as a member of 
the Parisian or Yiennese hecm monde could desire. 
And this is the goal of respectability, to which our 
countrymen and countrywomen are urging their 
impatient and zealous way ! These ai-e the associa- 



1T6 

tions aud friendsliips which we are coveting for our 
sons and daughters ! 

Among the middling classes, the case is not quite 
so hopeless ; but it is bad enough. 

A brief but impartial inquiry into the status oi 
these classes in this country may justly claim our at- 
tention. It is unquestionably true that among them 
we shall find more scrupulous regard to the proprie- 
ties and decencies of life, a stronger emphasis upon 
an unsullied reputation, and character holden to a 
stricter accountability. It is likewise true that among 
them is to be found the greater portion of that 
philanthropic zeal and benevolent activity, which 
embody themselves in the great organizations and 
smaller societies laboring to convert the heathen, 
reform the inebriate, alleviate the sufferings of the 
poor, and to diffuse throughout all realms, and all 
conditions of men, the practical tokens of Christian' 
mercy. It is from them that we derive our armies 
of Sunday-school teachers, tract distributors, visitors 
to the poor, laborers for the destitute and afflicted. 
It is upon them that the best hopes of the Christian 
Eepublic must be founded ; for they constitute by 
far the largest portion of our virtuous and religious 
community. We cannot fail to be paini'uUy impressed 
with the cold, hard, austere forms of social existence 
presented among these middling, or religious classes. 
The problem — one of the most vital to our interests 



A.SCETICISM TO BE AVOIDED. 177 

— of the relation of amusements to well-regulated 
society, lias not yet been solved, nor as far as I 
am apprised, has there been an approach to a 
solution. If a wretched seclusion or a harsh con- 
ventionalism, baptized with the name of churchly, or 
Christian, be imposed upon young people, does not 
every one know that they will be guilty of private 
derelictions, that they will nm*se secret vices, and 
when they have escaped from parental guardian- 
ship, that they are evidently liable to revolt, even 
from all good influences, and rush into the wild- 
est extremes of dissipation? A loathing of the 
Sabbath, a detestation of church-going, a disgust 
for the Bible, are not unusual tastes among the chil- 
dren of strictly orthodox families. The confessions 
of later years inform us that many of the children 
of pious parents are accustomed to read in secret 
forbidden books and those of the very worst descrip- 
tion, to visit those places of amusement which have 
been most rigidly interdicted, and in every way to 
evade the vigilance of their superiors, and to disre- 
gard and contemn their commands. I confess that 
I do not find a sufficient explanation of these 
mysterious facts in the doctrine of the depravity of 
human nature, nor in the declaration that the chil- 
dren of virtuous parents are very imps of Satan. 

This tendency towards morbid asceticism, thus 
disastrous in its effects upon young people, manifests 

8* 



178 AN HOIJIi's TALK ABOUT WOMAK. 

itself in another bnt not less repulsive form among 
the mature portion of these circles. A stiff and 
formal code is established, to regulate such larger 
assemblages as there may be, while often a frigid 
and artificial conventionalism seems to control even 
the most select intercourse of friendship. Conversa- 
tion is the employment of the groups and parties; 
but, alas! what is the chief characteristic of that con- 
versation? They begin with "news," and proceed 
to the canvass of reputation. The qualities of 
acquaintances and neighbors are discussed with 
metaphysical sharpness. The dissecting-knife of a 
cynical criticism is unsparingly applied to the char- 
acters of friends and associates. Defects, faults and 
vices of others are pointed out, with what is sup- 
posed to be unflinching conscientiousness ; and the fol- 
lies of those occupying superior social positions are 
searched for with inquisitorial rigor, and dealt with 
after a most scorching fashion. Domestic difficulties 
unfortunately dividing ftimilies of their own " sets," are 
scented by the delicate nostrils, and hunted down 
by the ravening appetites of too many who claim 
and receive credit for great sanctity. Scandal sup 
plies the stiuiulus, at many virtuous tea-parties, 
which dancing affords to the frequenters of the ball- 
.room; and unlicensed gossip yields an ample com 
pensation to crowds whose scruples or whose meanp 
prevent their indulgence in fashionable recreations 



PHABISAISM REPLACES TKUE RELIGION. 179 

Stern rebukes are administered to cliildisli merri- 
ment by those who are too sour to be gay ; while 
free issues of gentle and spontaneous feeling are 
checked and driven back upon the ingenuous 
heart, by callous indifference and puritanical 
and Pharisaical egotism. That there is a fearful 
amount of illiberality, narrowness and cant, of con- 
temptuous and scornful invective, of self satisfied and 
haughty condemnation, in the tone and conduct of 
the classes we are considering, no one well acquainted 
with them can for a moment doubt. Are not all 
these inimical to the true tone and right conduct of 
society? Are we to be united only as vultures in 
search of carrion ; to revel upon putrid banquets ? Is our 
only compact to be that of familiars of the Holy Office, 
to pry into the innermost sanctuaries and consciences 
of our friends and relatives, that' we may expose their 
delinquencies, short-comings and crimes ? Is society so 
established that the strong may hunt the weak, that 
those that are whole, needing not a physician, may 
cruelly taunt and maltreat those that are sick ? that 
the wounded stag may perish by the antlers of his 
unhurt I'ellows? Shall the sleek face palliate libel, 
or the demure expression sanction slander? Can 
a professed regard for virtue justify bitterness of 
spirit, or the breadth of pharisaical phylacteries 
atone for truculence of discourse ? Nay, nay. Soci- 
ety is appointed for a sweet and holy office, and 



180 



human fellowship is ordained unto benign and mani- 
fold ministries ; wit and wisdom, cheerfulness and 
mirth, frolic and lightness of heart, sweet temper and 
buoyant spirits, graceful speech and generous thonght, 
should characterize the manners of mankind. We 
seek friends to be cheered, not criticised; we need: 
sympathy, not potions of vinegar and wormwood.!, 
We come to the pure and the good to have onr own 
views of goodness and purity freshened and vitalized ; . 
that onr drooping fainting spirits may be qnickened ! 
and inspired. We want the hearty words and kin- 
dling sentiments accompanied by the vibrating tones 
which tell of real worth and real communion with 
virtue and holiness ; not the hollow utterances of for- 
malism, nor the discordant croakings which attest the 
ravages of spiritual dyspepsia. What we desire in so- 
ciety is, hnman beings with flesh and blood, mind and 
heart ; with weaknesses and fanlts and yearnings ; with 
sadness and glee, hope and buoyancy ; with virtues 
and vices, the good and the bad inextricably involved. 
We desire bone of our bone and flesh of our flesh ; part- 
ners in our want and woe, brothers in onr high call- 
ing and destiny. This is what we desire ; not per- 
pendicular lines and sharp angles, mathematical 
figures, cold unrealities, or spectral apparitions. A 
man's best virtues must strike deep root in silence 
and solitude ; but the tender shoot, the budding foli- 
age, the expanding flower, the ripening fruit, must 



THE POWER OF SYMPATHY. 181 

be nursed and vivified by the open air, the frequent 
'dews, the early and latter rains, of social intercourse. 
The hearty pressure of a friendly hand, the kindly 
glance of a gentle eye, the soft and thrilling tone of 
a pleasant voice, have oftentimes power to nerve the 
soul about to sink into the yawning abyss of despair, 
for another struggle, perhaps for a victorious one, with 
fate. Who has not, in some lonely and critical hour 
of his existence, about to faint and perish beneath the 
crushing load of pain and trouble, seen what gracious 
■power, what majestic strength, there is in human 
sympathy ? 

I A prime and irrevocable law of our nature is that 
[man cannot enjoy the unshared possession ol any 
good. The moment he attempts exclusive selfish 
appropriation of it, its virtue departs; it ceases to be 
a benefit. As riches increase, they that shall be fed 
will also increase; and if the owner deny their claim, 
either his wealth will vanish from him, or its power 
to cheer and animate him will depart. Countless 
illustrations of the truth of the proposition might be 
derived frorn. every department of our activity ; I 
Jiowever, propose to confine my vindication to the 
statement of the provinces of intellectual and moral 
culture ; for it is upon obedience to this law that these 
will mainly depend. If your reading and observa- 
tion furnish you with a new fact ; if by laborious 
jtudy you have gained insight into a new truth, if 



182 



your eye lias been gladdened by tlie vision of an 
unusually magnificent suuset, and your heart has 
responded to the gladness, if your soul has come into a 
more profound acquaintance with beauty and good- 
ness, these, one and all, are to be communicated to 
your fellows, or they will cease to be a part of you. 
"No man can either accumulate the knowledge of the 
phenomena and principles of science, or even become 
fully conscious of the richest revelations of his in- 
tuitional nature, who is content to lock these treasures 
within his own brain, and bosom. Truth, sentiment, 
beauty, all that the mind or heart can receive, may 
become ours upon the one indispensable condition of 
reproducing and communicating it. The refusal to 
put your thought into words and tell it to your neigh- 
bor will not only involve the loss of the thought 
itself, but probably in due time of the power by which 
thought is produced. Let a man cheerfully render 
what he has received ; let him teach what himself has 
been taught ; let him interpret perceptions and 
reflections, that others may be instructed and helped ; 
and his education progresses ; maturity of view as 
well as clearness of insight, balance of statement, and i 
steadfastness of conviction shall hereby be gained. 
'No man can be loyal to the deepest and noblest sen- 
timents, afi'ections and principles of his nature, unless 
he attempt to embody and set them forth in speech 
or writing for the service of his kind. It is upon these 



CONVERSATION. 183 

truths that the value and glory of the literary pro- 

f fession are based ; and these at the same time enforce 

I the duty of conversation and ensure its reward. "We 

(instinctively act upon the assumption that speech 

' doubles the gains and halves the losses of experience. 

The stricken heart soothes its own bitterness by the 

I recital of its woe; and the cheerful spirit adds 

to the treasure of its happiness as it pours the welcome 

tale into the ear of a sympathetic auditor. The ethe- 

jreal substances of which intellections are made will 

delude or defy us unless they are fixed in the gyves of 

i| language ; and yet when they are thus fastened, un- 

'5 less we give them the liberty of the world, and share 

the dower which they have conferred upon us with 

our friends and neighbors, the royal captives will 

Sdisdain our lordship ; and with angry and yet sorrowful 

jaspect will vanish into thin air and leave not a trace 

'behind. Thoughts in the mind of the thinker often 

lie diifused and invisible like solids dissolved in the 

vessels of the chemist ; the electric power of definite 

utterance, like the mysterious force of crystallization, 

!erects the unseen substance of the thought into visible 

and permanent shape. 

The vocalized thought, ready and obedient as 
a vassal, serves our purpose of enriching others, 
and at the same time adding to our own stores. 
" There is," says Solomon, '' that scattereth and yet 
increaseth ;" and of such processes this is one. The 



184 

I 
inevitable tendency and conclusion of purposefal con- 
versation is to generate, classify, and define thinking ; 
to give fullness, accuracy, and simplicity of expres- 
sion, and if used in a truly humane spirit, to nurse 
and develop the sweetest sympathies and most be-: 
nign attributes of our nature. Conversation con- 
stitutes one of the most important yet one of the most 
neglected branches of education ; and at the same 
time, one of the most valuable and available meanfi' 
of usefulness. 'No one of us may possess the learn- 
ing of Scaliger, or the epigrammatic force of Selden,, 
or the grace and erudition of Menage, or the over-^ 
flowing fullness of Johnson, or the metaphysical 
acumen and boundless stores of Mackintosh, or the 
ceaseless wit and well-nigh unparalleled common 
sense of Sydney Smith ; yet few are so barren or 
tongue-tied b}^ nature that they may not yield amuse- 
ment, instruction and delight to their companions. 
It is true that the highest style of conversation pre-sup- 
poses the largest range of faculties, culture, and expe-' 
rience ; but while there can be but few great talkers, 
almost all have it in their power by cultivating self- 
acquaintance, honest endeavor and kind disposition, 
to minister in friendly converse to the well-being of 
others. The best and most beautiful service of this 
kind we have a right to exact from women. Their pe- 
culiar constitution, she greater delicacy of their sensi- 
bilities, their refinement and reach of sympathy, their 



THE IMPORTAISrCE OF CONVERSATION. 185 

larger aud more genial social nature, their finer capa 
city to apprehend and interpret tlie characters of 
others, their ability more easily and gracefully to put 
their notions into language, justify us in this requi- 
sition. Added to all this, is the special fact that the 
right conduct and best interests of social life are 
hitrusted to their guardianship. 

As I urge this statement I am met by various 
apologies and complaints, such as — " we have no time ; 
we have no opportunity to cultivate conversational 
power ; we decline to admit the truth of your allega- 
tions in regard to our capacity or responsibility ; for 
we are not so highly gifted, nor is our position one of 
M ) much worth and dignity." 

I rejoin : if the mass of young women were to spend 
IS much time upon intellectual culture, in acquiring 
lie ability to talk w^ell, as they devote to the looking- 
^•lass or toilet-table, we should witness an instant and 
•apid revolution in society ; if as much interest were 
elt and pains taken in the cultivation of really good 
nanners, and in the wise and graceful use of the 
oiigue, as are expended upon dress, flippant young 
■oxcombs would have cause to mend their ways, or 
quit the society they now frequent ; and sensible, 
ultivated men would have less compimction in 
ttending evening parties. The stammering, incoher- 
nt style of speech, the breaks and pauses in which 
be mind seems to be summoning its rebel vassals to 



186 



do their office, tlie spurious coin of slang and vulga 
itj current in our best circles, alike testify to tl 
wretched need and the prime importance of distinc 
ive conversational training. 

May I be permitted to suggest a few hints as 1 
the method for training the tongue to fluent and read 
exercise ? 

Let the story-telling habit so dear to children 1 
continued, notwithstanding the awkward and uncoii 
fortable feeling which self-consciousness so painful] 
imposes. You need never be at a loss for an audi 
ory so long as children are numbered among yoi 
acquaintance; and if you exact a more apprec 
ative hearer, you can easily arrange to listen as we 
as talk with your bosom friend — for every yoni 
lady has such. From anecdotes and tales you me 
proceed to narrations from your graver reading ; ai 
then to comments, discussion and criticism. You a] 
thus acquiring the use of your lingual and ment 
abilities. Words grow tamed and flexible ; ideas ai: 
illustrations yield their levies at command ; animate^ 
instructive and inviting speech becomes possible ; ar 
thus from small beginnings and in however limited 
theatre, by patient continuance and earnest endeav* 
you gain one of the most beautiful accomplishmeii 
and at the same time one of the noblest agencies f 
good. 

Let me here urge upon my younger readers tl 



EDUCATIONAL SUGGESTIONS. 187 

leculiar and pre-eminent importance of fully and 
jxactly comprehending the meaning of words, " the 
ounters of wise men, the coin of fools," and at the 
ime time insist npon their studious perusal of two 
iost admirable and fascinating little books, written by 
ichard Chenevix Trench ; one on " The Study of 
^ords " the other on " English, past and present ;" 
lan which I am acquainted with no books better 
alculated to awaken and foster in the popular mind 
just and lively estimate of our noble English tongue. 
Never read without a lexicon at hand ; if possible, 
ichardson's. IsTever pass a word of the significance 
t which you are doubtful. Carefully con its primary 
bd derivative meanings ; and you shall find the cof- 
fers of your mind filling with beautiful and lasting 
reasures. 
But leaving these didactic hints, wdiich need only 
e considered as salient suggestions, I may briefly 
iidicate some open doors to woman's generous social 
Ctivity. It is true that our civilization may be 
aunted by such feminine monstrosities as Mrs. Jelly- 
ly and Mrs. Pardiggle ; but is not its lustre bright- 
ned by such names as those of Mrs. Fry and Miss 
)ix ? A beautiful lesson as to one of woman's spheres 
nd her power to perform the duties it imposes, is 
iught in the unostentatious simple-hearted Christian 
S,bors of many of the Friends in this country and in 
ngland. Their schools for prisons, and among the 



188 



destitute ; their tireless, yet silent efforts for t 
restoration of the fallen, the relief of the sufferin 
their constancy and patience in the performance 
good works, are lasting memorials to their honor 
well as significant instructors to their contemporarii 
By co-operation with many of the schemes whi 
have for their object the amelioration of the state 
the poor and suffering, and by solitary ministrationi 
the abodes of the lonely and oppressed, may worn 
find a field for the exercise and gratification of t! 
largest ambition. Hand to hand contact with t 
wretched ; personal presence in the abodes of t 
lowly ; will rectify many an error of the brain — w 
enlighten many a dark place in the heart; and com 
a lasting benison upon the visitor and the visite 
Here then, in neighborly, friendly, and benevole 
relations and offices, are the fullest scope and m( 
admirable possibilities afforded to woman for t 
training of character, the discipline of virtues, t 
use of influence, and the attainment of substanti 
honor and glory. 

We turn now to the last and most sacred refuge < 
our hopes on earth ; the peculiar theatre for womai 
struggles and success — Home. Some features of tJ 
domestic life of our countrj^ claim a moment's notic 
We are an industrious and enterprising nation, in t 
earlier stages of development and civilization. O 
labors, if we liken them to those of the husbandma 



OUE DOMESTIC LIFE. 189 

ve been almost exclusively those of the spring 
ae, of ploughing and sowing. ITow the summer 
advancing, when it becomes us with careful atten- 
n and unrelaxed diligence to keep down the weeds, 
d w\ard off if possible the dangers to which our 
^ps are exposed. To drop the figure, our contest 
lis far has been with the enemies of a young people, 
e have had to clear primeval forests, to till a virgin 
iitinent, to lay the foundations of commerce and 
mufactures, to organize government, and to pro- 
le, in so far as has been practicable, for the wants 
I our higher nature. We have been chiefly 
grossed by physical and political necessities ; w^e 
fve been mainly conscious of external pressure. 
)w to get the means of living has been the great 
estion, urged upon us as a peo^Dle. With its 
jwer we have been almost exclusively occupied, 
iw to live, now that the means are acquired, has 
&n accordingly almost overlooked. It may be 
grred, therefore, without much injustice, that we 
ve little or no true domestic life in this country, 
ppose I picture the home of a 'New York merchant 
flourishing business ; and let it stand with such 
yht modifications as may be necessary to adjust it 
latitude and neighborhood, as the type of a large 
ss of American homes. 

The house is ample, convenient, and showy ; the 
^iture abundant, sumptuous and costly ; everything 



190 AN hour's talk about woman-. 

upon the premises is very fine and very new ; for 
is an axiom in our domestic economy tliat the furn 
ture of a " good liver " must be replaced every fi^ 
or ten years. The drawing-room is ornamented wit 
rosewood and velvet, with expensive tables and broa 
mirrors, with etageres upon which are throngs c 
knick-knacks, miniature cups and saucers, dapper st; 
tuettes of china and all manner of tasteless, grotesqi! 
and vulgar devices and monstrosities. Upon ti 
centre-table or the " what-not " you will discover 
number of volumes, gilt-edged and showily boun 
whose chief value in the eyes of the owner seems 
be the price they cost. The portraits of the interes 
ing family circle, executed in the " first style of art. 
and set in gorgeous frames, decorate the wall 
These together with the above-mentioned articles d 
virtu^ constitute the only works of art upon the pr 
mises, except the very magnificent clock which tic" 
away the moments upon the mantel, and probab 
a pair of elaborate vases of terrific ugliness. TI 
room is exclusively for those guerilla visits made 1 
fashionable ladies, and dignified by the appellatid 
of " calls ;" and in addition, once or twice j?6r annw 
for the guests at an entertainment styled " a party 
Over its door might be written with justice the d 
scription, " Cabinet Furniture Ware-room — no adm 
tance except on business." The family apartmei 
are less splendid, yet have an exceedingly new ai' 



AN ILLUSTRATION. 191 

tie look ; and you instinctively imagine that the 
^pliances of the establishment are to be looked at, 
U used. There is every convenience, but littlo 
)infort. 

Tliose evolutions of the household which concern 
le respectable head of the family are ordered with 
("eat promptitude and punctuality. Breakfast is 
iten at an early hour ; tea is taken about dark, 
[inner is for the lady and her children ; as her hus- 
ind " eats down town," except on Sundays. The 
!od is rapidly dispatched ; there is little or no con- 
^rsation ; the table is to be eaten from, then quitted 
ith precipitancy. After tea, the gentleman has his 
^wspaper, his accounts, and his letters to attend to, 
jherefore he dons his dressing-gown and slippers, 
dd takes his statuesque place by the sitting-room 
,ble ; the children must not speak a word, for 
papa is busy." The little ones are put to bed, and 
[anima sews on in silence. If she address a remark 
t her liege, she is probably so curtly answered that 
)e will not venture it again, or else she is reminded 
lat he is occupied. In this unsocial way the hours 
iss until bedtime ; when they retire, he jaded and 
ireworn, she sick at heart. The father and husband 
never less at home than when at home ; and yet he 
ipresses wonder that his children are never cou- 
nted to be in the house in the evening unless they 
ive company. What contribution does he make to 



192 AN hotje's talk about woman. 

their enjoyment or instruction ? What light of tran 
quillity or joy does he shed throughout the house 
hold ? How he frets if a little one toddles up to hin 
to claim his attention, to (""istract his thought fron 
consuming care ! How he fL nes if breakfast be no 
ready at the moment, or his shirt be minus a button 
He is thinking of money. Is it strange that th( 
Penates are transformed into golden calves ? 

Let me illustrate the love of Mammon which is dii 
fusing its accursed lust as a leprosy throughout th 
households of the land, by two or three instances whicl 
fell under my own observation. A gentleman o] 
moderate means, addicted to literary and scholasti 
pursuits, settled a few months since in New Yort 
Three of his children, ranging in age from three t 
nine, with the strong instinct of childhood for com 
panionship sought playmates among their neighbors 
As the little ones were engaged in friendly romp 
with some new-found fellows upon the adjoining side 
walk, a stately dame in elaborate toilet, curls, ribbons 
laces, flounces, hoops, made her appearance upon th 
steps, and thus harangued the little strangers: "G< 
home, children: go home. I can't allow poor people' 
brats to play with my children !" Her children livei 
in a house four stories high ; the " brats," in one oi 
three and a half. These, coming home, piteousl; 
asked their mother if it was naughty not to be rich 

The same family had occasion to employ a semps 



> 



CLASS SEPAEATISM. 193 



tress ; and secured for that purpose an Irish girl. 
She had been in the house at work a day. when she 
received a visit from her sister, a strapping red-faced 
cook, who, putting her arms a-kimbo, surveyed the 
apartments with lofty disdain, and then commenced 
in the rudest and vilest manner to abuse her sister 
for taking service in such an establishment. The lady 
of the house, entering the room to know the reason 
of the outcry, was next most bitterly assailed for 
daring to bring a " dacent girl " into such a little 
house, and one so " manely" furnished. "What 
right has such a poor family as yez are wid a semps- 
tress?" cried she, in fiery indignation. The sewing- 
girl, upon being questioned by the perplexed family, 
who could not yet comprehend the significance of 
this demonstration, informed them that her sister 
would not permit her to live with " the kind of people 
they were ; for she had always been accustomed to 
live with '' very respectable people — ^in very rich 
houses indeed." 

A bright little girl, at one of our fashionable water- 
ing-places came sadly to the mother, with the com- 
plaint that she had no one to play with. Why not, 
my child ? was the maternal inquiry. " Because I am 
not nice, my clothes are not fine enough, these children 
will not play with me. They have silk dresses and 
flounces, and broad, gay ribbons, and chains, while 
my dress is only muslin and I have not any broad 

9 



194: 



sash or chain, and the j say I am not good enough to go 
with them." The mother looked on the broad saloon, 
where groups of little ones were gathered promiscu- 
ously, and saw in many faces whose tender years 
should not have out-grown the marks on brow and 
feature of the benediction of Him who once took just 
such in his arms and blessed them, only the vul- 
gar artificial stare of worldliness and folly. And in 
such an atmosphere her darlings must breathe, and 
either share the infection, or brave it out at fearful 
risk — a commentary on fashionable life sadder and 
darker than any of the homilies. 

These trivial instances illustrate the fearfully 
debauched state of opinion upon social morals and 
manners, prevalent among large masses of the com- 
munity ; in which a man's expenditure is made the 
standard of his respectability ; and ostentatious dis- 
play and extravagance the test of qualification for 
social life. The greed for gold, like a canker, is eat- 
ing out the heart of our healthful life ; and what is 
acquired by painstaking toil, speculation, with the 
fevered haste of a gambler, is lavished in reckless 
profusion, with flaunting display. There never was a 
country where money was so rapidly made ; there 
never was a country where money was so vulgarly 
and indecently spent. 

Besides this artificial and hollow form of domestic 



EVIL INFLUENCES. 195 

life with which we are cursed, I must alhide to 
another monstrous evil which has already been hint- 
ed at, growing out of the senseless and sensualized 
conceptions of our people ; I refer to the boarding- 
honse system. Such is the scale of expense which 
young married people find it essential to adopt, that 
housekeeping is impossible. Lodgings are therefore 
taken ; where the childless wife, for eight-tenths of 
her waking hours, is thrown upon her own resources, 
among such acquaintances and associates as tlie com- 
mon table may bring her into contact with. Her life 
is one of leisure, if not one of ease and indolence ; 
and who does not know that the idle brain is the 
devil's work-shop? The female inmates of these 
houses lounge in each others' apartments ; dis- 
cuss the gossip of the house ; " read, mark, learn, 
and inwardly digest " the records of divorce trials, 
and such other tit-bits of scandal as our " family 
newspapers " provide them withal ; stroll out for 
an hour's aimless walk ; return to loll or sleep 
for an hour, and then dress for dinner. The narrow 
income of the clerk or younger partner fails to supply 
the youthful wife with all the expensive decorations 
which she deems requisite to show off her fine per- 
son. The chances are that she will begin by ogling 
and end with infamy ; that her expensive tastes will 
be gratified by her husband's recourse to fraud, or 
her own to more ignominious means. I cannot but 



196 AN HOTJe's talk about WOMAN". 

regard the growing habit of boarding, with the train of 
risks, evils and horrors inseparable from it, as one of 
the most terrible dangers by w^hich the domestic and 
social interests of onr country are threatened. 

Another appalling fact demands an instant's consid- 
eration. The exaggerated notions with which our 
young people are imbued, are tending more and more 
every year, to prevent marriage between persons who, 
but for their ill-judged and absurd views, might be 
most fitly wedded. The result is that many of our very 
best young women must linger out unmated lives, 
while young men with less scruple, and less respect 
for public opinion, accept the horrible alternative of 
an illegitimate connection, thus deliberately dedicat- 
ing themselves to vice and crime. I neither overstate 
nor croak. These are truths patent to every one 
familiar with the city life of this country. They are 
facts pregnant with mischief and disaster. They are 
facts chargeable upon the ill-regulated, even monstrous 
social life of the country. They are facts demandiug 
a_ prompt, full, earnest consideration from the best 
men and women among us. 

From whom have we a right to ask the initiation 
of reform ? Who, by their constitution, their position 
in the family, the delicate pervasive influence with 
which they are endowed, may inaugurate the revolu- 
tion and carry it forward to a successful termination ? 
The child is father of the man ; and the child's char- 



WOMAN THE TRUE REFORMER. 197 

acter is moulded by the mother. The nurseries of 
to-day contain the Society and the State of the next 
generation ; and in the child's world, woman's dignity 
and sway are i^gal. I have little confidence in polit- 
ical or moral reforms ; in measures which attempt to 
persuade and rectify men. If society is purged it 
must be by the sanctification of home, by the sway 
of female influence over childhood. I have fre- 
quently heard it complained by women who revolted 
at the narrow theatre assigned- them, " You send us 
back to the care of childi*en ; condemn us to be 
nurses and enslave us in the drudgery of the family." 
Let us calmly survey the lot of the housekeeping 
wife and mother. The school-girl pines for the free 
air and joys of society. She is enfranchised at six- 
teen or eighteen ; and leaving the dull routine and 
harsh trammels, as she esteems them, of her novitiate, 
she bounds with a glad step into the sunny places of 
society. She ceases to woo the muses, that herself 
may be wooed in turn ; and either devotes a few 
years to the jilting career of a coquette, or quickly sur- 
renders her heart and her hand to the man of her 
choice. Hitherto she has been under parental con- 
servatism and restraint; her aspirations have been 
checked, her movements controlled, and many of her 
" rights " denied ; but now she will be free. The 
future lies before her, a garden of pleasure. It is a 
land of enchantment. Alas ! the nuptial blessing 



198 AN hour's talk about woman. 

is hardlj uttered before the spell is broken, and she 
finds her fiitnre a schoolmaster more harsh and stern 
than any she has yet known. Love is an episode in 
the life of most men ; a brilliant, humanizing, divine 
episode ; and her husband is not an exception to the 
rule. He came to her decked with garlands, and 
moving to the soft voice of music. She is no sooner 
his bride, than he doffs his paradisiacal habiliments 
and manners, and returns to his working-day world, 
where he is soon absorbed almost as much as if there 
were no such person as herself in existence. 

For a while she carries the freshness of her hope 
and her youth along with her. After a time is 
heard a faint, childish wail. A fountain of bless- 
ings is opened in, her breast, of whose depth and 
sweetness she never before had dreamed ; but with 
the joy of motherhood comes its care. Years come 
and go. A brood of little ones encompass her ; and 
now her need is sore. The endless details of house- 
keeping, the necessity of regulating her expendi- 
tures in accordance with her husband's income, the 
ceaseless use of the needle, the sleepless vigilance for 
the welfare of her best beloved, the thousand anxieties 
and toils which men never reckon, never appreciate, 
duties in the performance of which she can hope 
for no sympathy, bind upon her shoulders a load, 
and fasten in her heart a weight of anxiety, which 
threaten to crush her to the earth. She has scarce a 



DOMESTIC SOLICITUDES. 199 

moment which she can call her own. Once she 
dreamed of literary culture ; the sweet companion- 
ship of books, the refining influences of art, the bless- 
ings of gracious hospitality ; but now she has neither 
leisure nor heart to bestow upon them. Many a time 
she piteously murmurs, " Why was I born ? Am I not 
a slave ?" Sickness, disappointment, -sorrow, do their 
work upon her ; she is weary and heavy laden. The 
conflicting tempers of her children are to be regulated ; 
their tumultuous little world harmonized, their ail- 
ments nursed, their afflictions softened. The attempt 
to bring a clean thing out of an unclean must be 
made, by governing awkward, deceitful, treacherous 
Irish domestics. Her life seems consumed by trifles, 
and yet their accumulation threatens a devouring fire 
of inextinguishable fagots. There can be no contin- 
uous efibrt in any one direction, because of moment- 
ary interruption. Her existence is broken into frag- 
ments. The constant calls upon her involve her in 
perplexity, and her steps are ever taken amidst con- 
fusion. And then come the seasons when the pulse 
stands still, as she bends in an agony of suspense over 
tlie sick child, in whose breast the wave of life ebbs 
and flows uncertainly. The issue is determined, and 
there is a vacant place in the little bed, and another 
tiny hillock in the grave-yard. The days dedicated 
to petty cares are darkened by the shadow of a great 
grief, and the light broken slumbers of a mother are 



200 AN hour's talk about woman. 

disturbed by painful dreams only less painful than 
realities. 

Thus do the months revolve in attendance upon 
trivialities — baking, sweeping, dusting, mending, 
patching, cutting, making, managing, contriving ; ' 
keeping little hands and faces clean, hearing perpetu- 
al complaints, drying tearful eyes a hundred times,/ 
condoling with the youthful sufferers from wounds and 
bruises, responding a thousand times a day to calls 
upon "Mamma." Thus do the years proceed, 
wherein the monotony of housekeeping, and maternal 
solicitude is only broken by some great and awful 
trouble, and before men pass their prime, their wives 
are broken in health, and wasted in form. Foreigners 
universally remark the fresh beauty and winsome 
grace of our girls, but at the same time the premature 
fading and rapid decay of our women. They have a 
slang phrase in the West, which tells the story after 
a coarse but pointed fashion — " It's a great country 
for men and horses, but its death on women and oxen.'' 

My pictm^e of woman's wedded life may not be a 
pleasant one, but I believe it truthful, — and truth in -• 
human life, I think, is oftenest a sad thing to con- 
template. 

]^o, young woman! marriage is not an Elysian 
region of freedom, repose, and happiness, but a scene, 
— as is our mortal state for all — of responsibility, trial 
and labor. 



: HER MORAL REQUIREMENTS. 201 

B How, then, I am asked, do you reconcile this con- 
dition of tilings with the government of miiversal 
love ? Why do yon exalt the position of woman, and 
exact from one oppressed and hampered as she is, the 
exercise of the sublimest, widest-reaching influence, 
the inauguration of the grandest and most endm-ing 
reforms ? I answer all the questions in this one state- 
ment — the great end of human existence and its 
divinest power is character, and no sphere is so pro- 
pitious to its attainment as the home-life of woman. 
Is it needful that I vindicate this proposition ? Her 
relation to her servants demands patience, prudence, 
long-suffering, self-control, and strength of will. Her 
house-keeping exacts diligence, watchfulness, punc- 
tuality, promptitude, thrift, management, method. 
With her children she must be thoughtful, gentle, 
firm ; ever ruling her own spirit that she may govern 
them ; self-possessed, yet sympathetic, blending dig- 
nity with grace, and tenderness with authority. 
Toward her husband she will have need to be gene- 
rous, magnanimous, forgiving ; to her guests urbane 
and gracious ; to her neighbors obliging and help- 
ful ; to the poor, friendly and kind ; toward the great, 
decorous yet self-respectful. When the family for- 
tunes meet with reverses, and her husband is 
dispirited and crushed, from the more flexible and 
elastic nature should come the spring and vigor by 
which losses may be retrieved and success re-estab- 

9-^ 



202 AN hour's talk about woman. 

lished. In prosperous affluence her serene spirit 
may shed, the tranquil light of contentment and peace 
throughout the household. In the time of utter- 
most need and darkness, when man's hope faileth, and 
his best discretion is as folly, she may lend wisdom to 
his councils, and strength to his steps, a wisdom and 
strength which she has obtained from One who " giv- 
eth liberally and upbraideth not." No one so needs 
the guidance, comfort and succor derived from prayer 
as she. To no one is the mercy-seat more accessible. 
The multiplicity of details which constitute her daily 
care, it would seem can only subject her to perplexity 
and vexation, but herein is a school for mental im- 
provement and development. The best powers of 
foresight, skill, combination and construction, may be 
employed in restoring the tangled web to order, where 
every thread shall find its apj)ropriate place and every 
set of colors shall be assorted in a fit arrangement. 
Her perspicacity finds scope for exercise in reading the 
characters of her chiMren ; — and the action of intel- 
lect is never so healthful and beautiful as when I 
impelled by beneficent sensibility. The little gene- 
ralship of the family summons the best powers into 
alert and strengthening movement. The feebleness 
of infancy, the waywardness of youth, the opening 
consciousness of her larger children, alike demand 
of her, vigilance, solicitude, self-poise and energy. 
When she is weary and well-nigh exhausted, how do 



MATERNAL TEACHINGS. 208 

the fires of lier life rekindle as she beholds the merry 
sports and gambols of her darlings ! The bloom upon 
their rosy cheeks, and the light of their sunny glances, 
bring back the lustre to her own eyes, and the 
unaccustomed blood to her wan face. In an hour 
like this she tastes of happiness, and surely no married 
flirt, no gay, worldly-minded woman ever experienced 
in quaffing the chalices of adulation offered to her 
vanity, such pure ethereal joy, as that which fills the 
true mother's heart in beholding the innocent glad- 
ness of her offspring. Their delight is to her as a 
well of refreshment in the valley of her pilgrimage. 
Her force of will is invoked that she may govern 
them ; and her sweetest pity that she may pardon ; a 
quick and tender conscience is required for the 
delicacy and responsibility of her trust. Faith is 
needed, for she guides the footsteps of heirs of immor- 
tality. Her work should ripen in her confidence in 
tlie germs of goodness which she plants in the soil of 
her children's nature, in the care with which she 
tends it, in the spiritual ministry which shall guard it, 
and in the eternal providence which ensures the fruit 
of her labor. God stations the mother by the cradle 
and bids her yield her hand to guide the uncertain 
steps of childhood, that man's earliest years may 
have the presidency and control of one apt toteacli, 
able to direct, and competent to bless him. The 
mother is called to a life of self-sacrifice, and is not 



204 AN hour's talk about woman. 

this the true notion of life, embodying the highest 
conception of character? The greatest the world has 
known, whom men have taken for their teacher hath 
said, " He that would be great among you let him be 
the servant of all." Home-life is a toilsome but 
a benignant ministry ; the highest requital of its ser- 
vice is in the character which is gained by its blessed 
labor. 

Who does not feel and know, that the divinest 
agency and force with which we are made acquainted, 
is character ? A perfectly educated will, calms, con- 
trols, and directs others. It is higher than intellect, 
or any form of genius. It blends the strength of 
Feeling, with the serenity of Eeason. It is harmony 
of nature, wherein the creature's will is subject to 
the Creator's, after tumultuous striving and long- con- 
tinued endeavor. It is the one only thing we carry 
with us to the future. As it is, shall we be — blessed 
or accursed. Therefore have I called it the true end, 
and divine power of human life, and said, that the most 
admirable lot for its acquisition and culture is the 
home-life of woman. 

In these three provinces, then, — literature, society, 
and home — is her true sphere ; here may her influ- 
ence be exercised, and trophies and rewards, peer- 
less and lasting as the soul itself, be won. By her 
books, conversation, manners and example, may she 
instruct and minister. As the world grows wiser 



PRACTICAL COUNSEL. 205 

[land better, we shall see these truths more clccarly, 
and feel them more deeply; woman's place will 
become more distiDctly defined, her influence more 
fully recognized and increasingly more potent. 

In conclusion, it may be allowed me to ofier a hint 
or two, as worthy and weighty subjects for thought, to 
every enlightened and conscientious woman in the 
country. 

Our girls leave school and enter society at too 
early an age. The mischief resulting therefrom is 
incalculable. To this is it owing, in part, that we have 
so few well-educated women ; so many precipitate 
and ill-assorted marriages, so much discontent and 
unhappiness in after life. Let it be recollected that 
most of our young women are " finished " by the time 
they are seventeen, and then tell me what familiarity 
with study, what real discipline of mind, they can have 
acquired. Tliey need and should have a thorough 
classical and scientific training, and to this end should 
ibe kept at school, or supplied with masters, until tliey 
are twenty at least. Out of New England the women 
know nothing of science, and very little of classical 
learning, and even there, those who do, constitute the 
exceptions. I have heard it bitterly complained 
that the men who draw up the courses of study for 
our highest schools assign so narrow a limit to 
the curiosity and capacity of the female, and one 
BO much wider to the male scholars. How is it pos- 



206 



sible to do otherwise when these programmes hav( 
to be prepared to suit our exigencies, in which th( 
young lady is to leave school the moment she is pre 
pared to study ? Is it surprising that the course shoulc 
be meagre and inadequate, when the girl's head is 
full of beaux and parties, from the time she puts oi 
long dresses, and is allowed to act upon the assump 
tion, that she is competent to take upon herself the 
most awful responsibilities of human life, before sh( 
is out of her teens ? I pronounce the opinion after noi 
a little careful inquiry and reflection, that the greatej 
number of fashionable boarding-schools among m 
are as pernicious and baneful institutions as an} 
nourished by our over-stimulated civilization. Lei 
us have as provision for the education of the future 
wives and mothers of the Republic, a more compre 
hensive course of instruction ; fewer " accomplish- 
ments " as they are called— apparently in derision : 
and more earnest patient study, and a drill as syste- 
matic and thorough as any now prescribed for boys. 
My other suggestion is in the form of an appeal tc 
my countrywomen to cultivate simplicity of life, 
taste, and manners. Renounce ostentatious display, 
extravagant expenditure; abjure the outre, monstrous 
styles of dress in vogue. Study the colours and 
fashion most becoming to yourself, and dare to follo^^ 
the dictates of a refined taste in apparel. Refuse l 
servile compliance with the reigning mode. Strive 



EDUCATIONAL SUGGESTIONS. 207 

to keep your children young, and thus secure your- 
self against the advance of age. In ornamentation 
seek beauty rather than splendor, and in the decora- 
tion of your house, select articles for the excellence 
of their form and color, and the harmony of their 
oroportions, rather than for their showy costliness, 
tlnough money is spent on expensive carpets in New 
York houses to foster a national school of art, and 
yet most of our painters and sculptors are living in 
poverty. Throw around your children every influence 
diat will soften and refine their nature. If paintings 
and marbles are too expensive, engravings and plaster 
are within the reach of all. Tolerate no license of 
manners, no rudeness of speech towards yourself, or 
in your presence. Let your self-respect be so strong 
that others will be forced to respect you. Suffer not 
the tongue of scandal, nor the voice of tattle, and mis- 
chief-making, in your hearing. Defend your chil- 
Jren as far as you are able from the pestiferous pas- 
sion for fine dress, and glittering display. Save your- 
self and them from hollow and vulgar pretension, 
and give us an example of cheerfulness under toil, of 
fortitude amid trial, and of contentment united with 
diligence and effort. 

I have had occasion in these remarks to speak 
plainly ; at times, perhaps sternly. At parting 
it is only fair that I should use words of difterent 
tone. It is usual for our countrymen returned 



208 



from foreign travel, to descant upon the supe 
rior qualities of the women of other lands — th(, 
seductive grace and passion of those of southeri 
Europe; the animated manners, the sprightlinesi 
and perpetuated bloom of the Parisienne ; th(' 
sustained strength of constitution, and pure white anc 
red of the complexion belonging to the Germans: 
the robust freshness and plump round figures of th( 
Dutch. That there is a want of physical stamina anc 
development in our women, I readily concede ; thai 
more fresh air, systematic out-door invigorating exer 
cise would be serviceable, all must agree. It is a sad 
fact that beautiful feet and ancles are often purchasec 
at the price of bodily torpor and enfeebled frames 
But taking them for " all in all," there are no sucL 
women in the world, and never have been, as those 
speaking the English tongue. In moral fibre and 
elevated tone ; in perception of duty and loyalty tc 
it ; in a deepening Christian consciousness, and a 
heroic life of self-renunciation ; in the unmurmur- 
ing endurance of privation, hardship, and pain ; in 
the cheerful and disinterested sacrifice of personal 
comfort, ease and happiness, for the good of others. 
they are without peers in the past or present. Othei 
climes may produce more brilliant, attractive, and 
fascinating women — those who dress, dance, walk, 
coquette, and talk, more gracefully and invitingly . 
but there are no such wives and mothers as our own. 



FUTURE HOPES. 209 

Their purity, trutii, and godliness are tlie best 
defences of our national life. Their generous influ- 
ence shall create, and their pious care shall nurse a 
race of future giants, majestic in self-control, and 
ijmighty for the overthrow of evil. 



FRENCH CHIVALRY IN THE SOUTHWEST. 



21X 



FRENCH CHIVALRY IN THE SOUTHWEST. 



CoMMEECE was a late birth of Time. Its infancy 
dates from the Portuguese discoveries of the fifteenth 
senturj. Its growth was a rapid one ; and even in 
the season of its youth, such was its Titanic strength 
)f muscle and grasp, that, as with a volatile glee, it 
hook the world out of its long slumber in the dormi- 
tory of superstition. The mind of the world, in a 
iort of nightmare, had been engrossed for ages with 
ibstract opinions. Loyalty to the central principle 
)f authority had bound men with slavish manacles. 
Religion — such religion as they had — was the pivot 
rf all national, social, domestic and individual move- 
ment. Under the plea of its requisition, Europe 
irmed itself against the infidel ; and the Catholic 
Bmpires fitted out exterminating expeditions against 
"he inofiTensive Albigenses. With its sanction Ferdi- 
land the Catholic summoned his steel-clad warriors 
;iO battle against the Moors of Granada; and the 
pious Isabella inaugurated the ferocious horrors of 



213 



214: FEENOH CHIVALEY IN THE SOUTHWEST. 

the Inquisition. The journeys which men undertoc 
were chiefly pilgrimages to holy shrines. All forB: 
of industry, all types of genius, were subordinated 
the sway of credulity. The sword was unsheathe 
and continents were deluged in blood in beha': 
of the speculations of sophists. Princes ruled i 
virtue of divine right ; and in their eyes the peop 
were as the fine dust of the summer threshing-floo^ 
The religious wars begun by Constantine, were contii 
ued through the sixteenth century. During a night ( 
nearly fourteen hundred years great forces we:' 
engaged in fearful struggles ; but human righ 
greater than the forces, lay in a deep unbrokd 
slumber. The strength of the knight, and the crai 
of the priest, the one wielding sharp-edged iron, tl 
other, book, bell and candle, fought with or again! 
each other. The one asserted the supremacy of bru 
force ; the other of intellectual power. Both were aliii 
intent upon the establishment of despotism. Feuda 
ism and Romanism — the throne and the church^ 
equally sought their continuance by the sacrifice ci 
the rights of the many, to the advantage of the fe\ 
The crown and the altar were to be perpetuated 
the expense of humanity. Their rapacious lust f' 
gold sealed the act of their discomfiture. Navig 
tion unlocked the treasures of new worlds ; the prie 
and the soldier hastened to possess themselves of tl 
spoil ; but in due time the citizen came to laugh . 



EARLY CHARTEK8 OF TRADE. 215 

the thunders of the Yatican and the sceptre of the 
prince. 

At first, sovereigns sought to employ commerce as 
they had before used the sword and the brain^ — to 
further the ends of tyranny ; but the young giant was 
mightier than his old masters ; he smote them down 
^nd laughed them to scorn. 

The theory of conquest and of colonization in the 
STew World adopted by the European monarchs was 
virtually this : that the recently acquired territory 
^as to be subjected to the supreme will of the 
dng, and tributary to the profit and pleasure of him- 
;elf and his capital. Mexico, Peru, and the Indies 
iv^ere regarded by Charles and Philip as so many 
orchards and mines, whose products might gratify 
he royal palate and fill the royal coff*ers. Eliza- 
)eth, James and Charles seemed to consider JN'ew- 
bundland and ^ew England simply as fisheries, the 
ole business of whose people it was to supply Britain 
Nith. cod and mackerel ; w^hile Louis the Fourteenth 
granted to his favorites unlimited demesnes in New 
d'rance and on the Mississipi3i, and charters of mono- 
)olj for the fur trade therein. The great monarch's 
ourtiers and mistresses wanted costly peltries to de- 
corate their noble persons ; to this end the Indians 
night hunt on the borders of Superior or by the 
3anks of the St. Lawrence and Mississippi, and the 
;raders transport their precious merchandise from 



216 FEENOH CHIVALRY IN THE SOUTHWEST. 

Quebec. JSTo vessels, save those under tlie flag of th 
proprietary monarch, might trade in a provincial port 
Thus did the kings seek to bind the infant commerc 
with the fetters of monopoly. 

In due time the regulation of trade comes to b 
regarded as a prime article in treaties between nations 
The courts of Madrid, Paris and London are bidder 
for the tribute of the seas. All the arts of diplomac; 
are brought to bear by the royal competitors an< 
their envoys, to gain the coveted prize. The tactic: 
of negotiation are exhausted in many a keen encouE 
ter ; but first Spain, and afterwards France are ouli 
witted, and England, by the treaty of Utrecht, 171S 
is acknowledged mistress of the deep. ; 

I have thought it might be an attempt not devoi< 
of interest, to place before you the effort of France t 
transplant Feudalism into the soil of the New World 
and to carry thither her chivalry. In virtue of thjst 
discoveries of James Marquette the Jesuit and priest | 
the first European who sailed on the waters of th;j( 
upper Mississippi, and of the Sieur Eobert Cavalielti 
de la Salle, the bold trader, the first to follow th^ i 
stream to the sea, France laid claim to all th ; 
regions bordering the Father of Waters, and upoi ; 
his tributaries. The tract extended from the foo \, 
of the Appalachian chain to the head- waters o ^ 
the Missouri ; from the Balize to Itasca Lake. Br > 
it was a dim cloudy realm to Europeans ; knowj iT 



I EARLY DISCOVERIES IN THE SOUTHWEST. 217 

to them only bj the marvellous and exaggerated 
reports which had reached them from the few 
explorers. The Mississippi had never been entered 
from the Gulf except by Andrew de Fez, a Spaniard, 
about 1680, and of his discovery no trace remained. 
jThe brave La Salle had perished in attempting to 
Ifind its month. But the difficulty of the discovery 
only the more inflamed the imagination and enthusi- 
asm of France, already kindled by the reported good- 
liness of the land. As soon as the Grand Monarqua 
had brief space to rest from his wars, he gave heed 
to the importunate cravings of some of his subjects 
that they might go out and possess the fruitful and 
llimitable region to which the name of Louisiana was 
yiven in honor of his most Christian majesty. A 
ittle fleet of two frigates and two smaller vessels was 
itted out in the port of Rochelle, from which the ill- 
itarred La Salle had sailed fourteen years before, 
le command was intrusted to D'Iberville, a noble 
idmiral of the French navy, who had spent most of 
lis life in. the E^ew World, warring with the icebergs, 
►r the more implacable fury of his English adversa- 
ies about Hudson's Bay. A man of strict integrity, 
ndaunted courage and unblemished reputation, 
iolized by his countrymen, and the most approved 
fficer of the French navy, he was now to try his 
3rtunes in a region bordering upon the tropics, 
nth him sailed his two younger brothers, Sauvolle 

10 



218 FRENCH CHIYALEY IN THE SOUTHWEST. 

and Bienville, who were to be his partners in thOj 
perils and the honors of the enterprise. They' 
weighed anchor in 1698 ; and on the first of January, 
1699, they made land in the Gulf. Their terra fiTma\ 
proved to be a low flat sand island, upon which theyj 
found enormous heaps of unburied human bones.i 
which they might have accepted with justice as an' 
omen of the fate of the great Gallic enterprise which 
they were now initiating. On the suggestion of th( 
horrid remains, they gave to this their first land th( 
name of Massacre Island. 

The traveller of our day, en route for New Orleans 
quits the pleasant little city of Mobile, and after i 
sail of thirty miles sees rising from the waters of th( 
Gulf this low desert ridge, which now bears th* 
name of Dauphine Island. Just before reaching it 
the boat, turning sharp to the right, proceeds throng' 
a narrow pass, and out of this into a series of bay^ 
lakes and passes, defended from the storms of th 
Gulf by a low chain of sandy bulwarks, and at lengt" 
reaches the placid waters of Lake Pontchar train. ] 
was upon the crystalline sands of these ridges ths 
our adventurers bivouacked when preparing for th 
subjugation of Louisiana ; first on Massacre or Dai 
phine Island, and subsequently on those further t 
the West. Later they crossed to the main lant 
and where the village of Biloxi now stands, the 
built a fort of four bastions upon which were mounte 



EXPLORATION OF THE MISSISSIPPI. 219 

twelve guns ; and over wliicli waved the lilies of 
France as a token of supremacy. Impatient to dis- 
cover the great river, which had been called Eio 
Grande by de Soto, the Eiver of the Conception by 
Marquette, the Colbert by La Salle, but now because 
it seems hidden from the eyes of men, the Perdido, 
the Lost, D'Iberville embarks with his brother, Bien- 
ville, a youth of eighteen, and a company of hardy 
adventurers, in open boats, leaving Sauvolle in com- 
mand of the fort. As they voyaged towards the west, 
they observed that the blue waters of the Gulf became 
discolored and turbid, and found huge trees which 
had been uprooted far within the continent, and borne 
by the rushing seething tide far out into the sea. 
These tokens apprise them that they are near the river's 
mouth. Before long they reach it, but D'Iberville 
cannot believe that this is the opening of the majes- 
tic stream of which he has heard and dreamed so 
much. Father Anastase Douay, however, a priest 
who had been here with La Salle at the time of his 
discovery, avers that it is. As they toilsomely ascend 
the rapid current, they discover a party of Indians at 
the mouth of the Bayou Goula, who have carefully 
preserved a letter left there fourteen years before by 
Chevalier Tonti, La Salle's faithful lieutenant, and 
directed to his master. The natives also show the 
astonished Frenchman parts of a coat of mail, which 
had probably belonged to some of the followers of 



220 FEENCH CHIYALEY IN THE SOUTHWEST. 

De Soto, whose party had voyaged this way a | 
hundred and sixty years before. All doubt is thus j 
removed and the goal at length is reached. They I 
have gained their river/ to which they give the name 
of St. Louis ; but where shall they build their town? 
The banks of the stream, for many a league from the i' 
sea, are only an oozy quagmire ; gloomy forests and ■ 
tangled brakes cover the country to the landward, 
far as the eye can penetrate ; and when they attempt 
to land, the swamp is their only resting-place. No 
rood of dry firm ground seems to arise within this [ 
illimitable morass. They return to Biloxi and finally * 
resolve to build their metropolis on Mobile Bay, near 
the present site of the city of that name, and the ij 
infant settlement is named Fort Conde. 

Our adventm'ous friends have come to found anew 
empire, not with the plow and axe and loom, not with ! 
honest toil and honorable industry ; but they will 
gather the lumps of gold which, as they fondly ima- 
'gine, strew the surface of the earth and lie imbedded ^ 
within its depths. They will seek the priceless pearls ^ 
which line the coast. They will obtain grants of 
countless acres from the crown, and become feudal j 
barons and great seigniors, and thus will they erect 
their state. The low pine barrens which constitute ■ 
the margin of the Gulf, on which they have settled, '' 
aflbrd no chance for tillage ; and were the land rich 
as alluvium could make it, they would disdain the 



DISCOUEAGEMENTS OF THE COLONISTS. 221 

toil. Thus, all their supplies, save the harvest of the 
\vaters, must be brought from France. But the voy- 
ages of ships are uncertain ; and ere long they are 
.hreatened with famine. Unused to the broiling sum- 
ner heats of these low latitudes, they are soon visited 
by disease. The invisible stealthy form of bilious 
■ever emerges from the swamps and lays about him 
ike a giant with a two-edged sword. That hundred- 
aanded monster, the yellow fever, imported from the 
West Indies, stalks amongst the defenceless settlers, 
spreading consternation and ruin, until hardly enough 
iving are left to bury the dead. Sauvolle, the admir- 
iFs brother, a fair intrepid youth, is amongst the 
earliest victims; and before six years are passed 
D'Iberville himself is sacrificed. Alas for the hopes 
)f chivalry ! E'either gold nor pearls have yet been 
bund. The colony is well-nigh exterminated by dis- 
ease and want, and must have perished but for the 
compassionate aid of friendly Indian neighbors. 

The command is now conferred upon Bienville, on 
vliose wise guidance and skillful management the 
lopes of the future empire rest. But the materials 
urnished him are not such as he could desire. Recruits 
ire sent to him by shiploads ; insolvent debtors and 
nen of broken fortunes, criminals from the prisons 
md abandoned women. The most wretched and 
legraded of mankind are those who are sent to 
lig the foundations and lay the corner stones of 



222 FEENCH CHIVALRY IN THE SOUTHWEST. 

the future edifice. "With such instruments what can 
even a great man like Bienville do ? He is sat- ; 
isfied that the dreams about gold and precious ' 
stones are idle and empty ; that the true hope and ; 
welfare of the colony is in agriculture ; that the toil j 
of the peo23le can alone yield them the means of sub- 
sistence and afford them the materials for trade ; that ' 
the labor of the husbandman and the mechanic fur- 1, 
nishes the only sure basis for commerce ; and that their j' 
metropolis must be built upon the banks of the great 
river, so as to command by a practicable and easy 
highway the resources of the whole interior, and have 
opened to it a sure and immediate communication 
with Canada. But he is baffled and disheartened by 
his filthy and worthless coadjutors, and no real work 
is accomplished. Thirteen years have passed, a hun- 
dred and seventy thousand dollars have been expend- 
ed and the results are unsatisfactory enough. Only 
two hundred and eighty settlers, for the most part 
idle and dissolute vagrants, among whom are twenty 
domestic negroes, are in the province. The king and 
council are discouraged ; something must be done for 
Louisiana ; but how, or what, are questions hard to 
settle. At this time there is in Paris a great mer- 
chant, one Anthony Crozat, who has amassed an im- 
mense fortune by trade and speculation. The king 
ofiers him the monopoly of the country flanked on its 
eastern side by Florida and the AUeghanies, on its west- 



THE FEENCH CHAETER EENOUNCED. 223 

ern by the Eio del I^orte and tlie Kockj Mountains, 

ij and extending from Daupliine Island to tlie Lakes. 

I He shall have it with its mines and minerals, its for- 

I ests, game and peltries, its fisheries and agriculture. 

He accepts the offer ; and the world thinks he knows 

his business, and predicts for him a splendid result. 

La Motte Cadillac is governor at Detroit, and he 

[ becomes Crozat's partner. Their plan is to open trade 

between France and the "West India Islands, Mexico, 

and Louisiana. Thus shall gold and gems be gained. 

But Spain refuses him leave to trade ; declining to 

allow his vessels to enter any of her ports ; and as 

for Louisiana, who is there to buy his goods ? and 

there is no merchandise that he can carry thence. 

Thus the speculation of the great merchant fails, and 

at the end of five years he surrenders his charter, 

having paid thirty thousand dollars for the chance 

of making an experiment. But there are others 

ready, eager to accept the opportunity ; confident 

that there is wealth in Louisiana, and that it can be 

obtained, if only the right means are taken to get it. 

The mind of England and France is at this time 

possessed of a mania for speculation. 

In the first the South Sea Company is ofi'ering an 
ample field for the knavery of rogues and the folly 
of dupes ; in the other, John Law, a canny Scot, 
who had established a f)i'ivate bank, and was doing 
a thriving business, assuming the style and position 



224 FjKench chiyalet in the southwest. 



of an opulent capitalist, possessing tlie entire confi- 
dence of the generous but profligate regent, Phi- 
lippe d'Orleans, and of the aristocracy and wealth 
throughout the conntr j, was busily engaged in organ- 
izing various companies and schemes ; a bank of ' 
France, a company of the Indies, and a western com- 
pany. The latter procured a charter of twenty -five 
years to monopolize Louisiana. Its stock was divided i 
into two hundred thousand shares, the par value of 
which was five himdred livres each. All classes of 
people throughout France having money, are stock- 
jobbers. The bourse opens with the beat of drum. 
Abb^s, bishops, cardinals, dukes, royal princes,, and 
the fairest women of the realm throng the Exchange, 
and vie with each other in the financial competition. 
The shares of the Louisiana speculation are greedily 
bought up. Maps delineating its vastness, illustrat- 
ing its fertility and wealth ; a soil richer than that of 
the Delta, moimtains of silver richer than that of 
Potosi, and of gold, with which the land of Ophir 
cannot be compared ; jDicturing prosperous states and 
private towns, quays thronged with shipping and 
busy tradesmen ; are exhibited in Paris, and inflame 
the already excited fancy of the country. It is whis- • 
pered as a great secret, but gains a wide circulation, 
that ingots of Louisiana gold have been seen in Paris, ' 
but by whom no one pauses to inquire. The lust for 
sudden riches lias deprived the people of their com- 



THE ASSIENTO CONTEACT. 225 

mon sense ; and the infinite wealth of the Mississip- 
pi valley is believed in as a present fact by the noble 
brokers and bankers of France, during the first quar- 
ter of the eighteenth century. Active measures are 
at once set on foot by the company to increase the 
population of the province. They enter into obliga- 
tion by their charter, to settle six thousand whites 
and three thousand African slaves, within its limits. 
The pernicious plaii of sending out the prostitute 
and criminal is continued. Street-walkers and wo- 
men from the hospitals of correction, bankrupts, 
felons whose sentence is commuted to transporta- 
tion, are to become the agents in gaining fabulous 
stores of wealth. Others, however, of more reputa- 
ble character are sent ; and at length the schemes 
of emptying the filth of Paris into the great valley 
is given up. Law and his company controlled in 
iLouisiana the exclusive traffic in human flesh, as 
England did throughout the rest of the Isew "World. 
Britain not only supplied her colonies upon the 
Atlantic coast with slaves, but in pursuance of her 
plans of ambitious and gigantic monopoly, gained 
by the treaty of Utrecht the sole right to supply 
Spanish America with Africans. " ' Her Britan- 
nic Majesty did ofi'er and undertake,' " quotes 
Bancroft from the treaty of Utrecht, " ' by per- 
sons whom we shall appoint, to bring into the 
West Indies of America, belonging to His Catholic 
10* 



226 FRENCH CHIVALRY IN" THE SOUTHWEST. 

Majesty, in the space of thirty years, a hundred and 
forty-four thousand negroes at the rate of four thous- 
and eight hundred in each of the said thirty years : 
paying on four thousand a duty of thirty-three anc 
one-third dollars a head.' The assientists migh: 
introduce as many more as they pleased, at the rate 
of duty of sixteen and two-thirds dollars a head 
Only no scandal was to be offered to the Romai, 
Catholic religion ! Exactest care was taken to secur(j 
the monopoly. 'No Frenchman nor Spaniard, nor an^l 
other person, might introduce one negro slave iaiv 
Spanish America. For the Spanish world in the Guli' 
of Mexico, on the Atlantic, and along the Pacific, a 
well as for the English colonies, her Britannic Ma 
jesty, by persons of her appointment, was the exclng 
ive slave-trader. England extorted the privilege o1 
filling the "N'ew World with negroes. As great profit 
were anticipated from the trade, Philip Y. of Spai] 
took one quarter of the common stock, agreeing t 
pay for it by a stock note ; Queen Anne reserved t 
herself another quarter ; and the remaining moiet; 
was to be divided among her subjects. Thus dii 
the sovereigns of England and Spain become th; 
largest slave-merchants in the world." 

By the side of this enormous speculation in fles 
and blood, Law's was dwarf-like. ISTevertheless, th 
profits derived from the sale of the negroes were on 
of the chief sources of revenue to the company' 



GOLD UNSUCCESSFULLY SOUGHT. 227 

coffers. The price of a stout negro man was a hundred 
and fifty dollars ; that of a healthy woman, a hun- 
dred and twenty-five dollars. It was subsequently 
raised about sixteen per cent. I^or was the perpetu- 
al bondage of the African the only style of slavery 
adopted. Twenty-five hundi-ed Germans of the Pal- 
atinate were introduced into the province, who were 
called " Redemptioners." They were bound to work 
as slaves for three years in the service of those who 
defrayed their expenses across the deep. Consider- 
able numbers of soldiers, miners and assayers, in 
addition, were sent ; the first to defend the colonists, 
and the others to discover and work the precious ores. 
Lead, iron, copper, without end, were found ; but 
after the most extensive and assiduous search, nei- 
ther gold nor silver. Two or three years were 
devoted by the company's servants to this bootless 
quest ; and then, at last, Bienville's long-urged pol- 
icy of wringing riches from the soil was reluctantly 
adopted. Meanwhile, the enterprising governor had 
established a fort and laid the foundations of a town 
on the site of the present city of Natchez, giving to 
it the name of Fort Rosalie, in honor of the Coun- 
tess Pontchartrain, wife of the French Minister of 
Marine, D'Iberville's friend and his patron in the col- 
onization of Louisiana. The location had been 
selected by the brave admiral twelve years before ; 
but the spot was too far distant from the sea to per- 
[ mit it to become the capital ; and Bienville was still 



228 FEENCH CHIVALET IN THE SOTJTH-WEST. 

perplexed in liis attempt to discover an advantageous 
site for his metropolis. During his persevering and 
diligent explorations for this object, he is one day 
busily examining the muddy boiling stream of the 
Mississippi, with boats and sounding lines, when sud- 
denly first the white sails of a large ship, and then the 
unwelcome ensign of St. George present themselves 
to his vision, slowly moving up the narrow stream. 
It is a British corvette of twelve guns. Without a 
moment's hesitation, the bold and quick-witted 
Frenchman hails her ; finds that Captain Barr is in 
command ; that her consort is in waiting at the river's 
mouth ; and that he is upon the errand of planting 
an English colony in those parts. Bienville imme- 
diately advises him that he is within the dominions 
of the King of France, that he must forthwith get 
out of them ; and that unless he does, he, Bienville 
will use the ample means within his command at the 
French fortifications a little way above, to make him. 
He volunteers likewise the valuable piece of geogra- 
phical information, that Captain Barr is in the wrong 
river ; for that the Mississippi is much further "West. 
The thick-headed Englishman is at a stand, seemingly 
more fearful of Bienville's castle in the air, than con- 
fident in his directions; he grumbles, and asserts that 
the British had discovered the river half a century 
before, and that he will come back with force enough 
to substantiate the claim by seizure. He turns about, 



FOUNDATION OF NEW ORLEANS. 229 

however, for the present, and departs ; doubtless, 
leaving the cunning Gauls in great merriment ; but 
does not come back, and the place of this effectual 
deceit is yet named the English Turn. 

Descending the river in another of his many ex- 
peditions, Bienville noted a bend in the tortuous 
stream, which assumed the shape of a crescent. Ex- 
amining the land upon its margin, he resolved that 
notwithstanding its unpropitious aj)pearance, here 
should his town be built. Staking the spot, he 
returned to Mobile and dispatched thence fifty con- 
victs for the purpose of clearing the ground of the 
forest undergrowth. The task was a Herculean one ; 
the means at Bienville's command to carry it forward 
were small ; and, moreover, the project was uncompro- 
misingly opposed by his associates in the government. 
ISTevertheless, his will was irresistible, and all obstacles 
at length yielded. By the year 1723, five years after 
the work had begun, a thriving and prosperous town 
appeared from out the tangled cane-brake, overshad- 
owed by the funereal forest of the cypress swamp, 
and washed upon its southern edge by the yellow 
current of the great river. He named the place in 
honor of a prince who ''forgot God, and trembled 
at a star" — the reckless regent. Due d'Orl^ans. 
The experience of a century and a quarter has set 
its seal on the sagacity of its founder. The village, 
a site for which he struggled so hard and so long 
to find, to build which cost him so many manful 



230 FEENCH CHIVALET IN THE SOUTHWEST. 

efforts, has grown to be the second commercial centre 
of the New World. Its exports in any given year are 
now greater than those from the whole East Indian 
empire. It is the entrepot from the sea for a realm 
well-nigh as wide as the whole vast expanse of liin- 
dostan. But while Britain derived from the slave 
trade the means to build up her empire in the East, and 
thus again acquired boundless wealth and commercial 
prosperity for herself, France gained nothing from 
her effort to establish feudalism in the wilderness, but 
loss, disaster and defeat. The city of E"ew Orleans, 
founded by Bienville, seems to have perpetuated in 
its history the characteristic traits of the man from 
whom it was named. There, dissoluteness walks 
brazen-fronted and unchecked ; and by its side the 
divine figure of generosity. Nowhere in this country 
is vice so rampant, and sin so unblushingly exposed. 
Nowhere are men so openly eager in the pursuit of 
interdicted aims, and so reckless as to the methods of 
attaining them. Yet when the fearful figure of the 
plague casts his dark shadow over the swamp-en- 
girdled town, when the pestilence walketh in dark- 
ness, and the destruction wasteth at noon-day, when 
it may be said almost without exaggeration that a 
thousand fall at your side and ten thousand at your 
right hand, the bravo, the gambler, and the debau- 
chee, forget their trades of crime ; the merchants 
banker, and artisan quit their occupations ; the gay, 



DEVELOPMENT OF INTERNAL KESOUKCES. 231 

frivolous and worldly leave their mirth and wine, and 
all are found rivalling and sometimes surpassing the 
self-devotion- of the priest and the physician ; minis- 
tering angels in the houses of woe, carrying bread, 
wine, and medicine to the hovels of the poor, bending 
over their inmates with inexpressible solicitude, and 
nursing them through lonely vigils with a mother's 
care and tenderness. IsTowhere are money and life 
80 wildly squandered; yet nowhere is wealth so 
bountifully bestowed in charity ; or love and life so 
freely given at the call of suffering. 

The best portion of the inhabitants of Louisiana 
were as yet derived from Canada. These hardy emi- 
grants, trained by solitude, rigor, and hardship, to 
frugality, enterprise and virtue, became the most 
thrifty and reliable members of the new State. Their 
only property, their coarse garments, a knapsack and 
staff, they yet possess indomitable courage and reso- 
lution, and willingness to labor. Plantations are 
opened on the banks of the Mississippi, above and 
below the new city, in the environs of Fort Rosalie, 
in the Red, Yazoo, and Arkansas Rivers. Rice, 
tobacco, and indigo, are successfully cultivated. 
The fig is transplanted from Provence, and the orange 
from Hispaniola. Neat cottages and pretty gardens 
cause the wilderness to bloom in many a spot, and 
all w^ears the golden hue of promise and success. 
Moreover, a thriving trade is opened with the coun- 



232 FRENCH CHIVALRY IK THE SOUTHWEST. 

tries of the Illinois and "Wabash. Lumber, tallow, 

i 
beeswax, bacon, hid,es, peltries, are received from 

these middle regions and shipped again to France. 
Coureurs du hois and voyageurs ascend the Missis- 
sippi and its tributaries to their sources, discover 
hundreds of mines of gold and silver, which always 
prove to be copper and lead; smoke the calumet, ne- 
gotiate treaties of peace and amity with the distant 
aborigines, and return with such stores as they have 
gathered in traffic, their memories overrunning with 
stirring and marvellous stories, the product of their 
fancies and adventures, more pleasing to their gos- \ 
sips and neighbors than their substantial gains. m 

ISTor are the spiritual interests of the people overlook- 
ed. AnUrsuline convent has been established in ]^ew 
Orleans ; churches are built in every village, missions 
established in every settlement ; and Jesuits go where- 
ever the hardy trader ventures, doing their utmost to 
convert the red savages from their heathenism. The 
indefatigable Bienville, dreading the approach of the 
English and their traffic with the Indians on the north- 
east, builds Fort Toulouse, near the spot where the 
limpid waters of the Coosa and Tallapoosa form the 
Alabama. Farther to the West, on the river which 
bears the name, he erects Fort Tombigbee. No sooner 
does he receive the news that war has been declared 
between France and Spain, than he crosses from Mo- 
bile, captures Pensacola, blows up the forts, and leaves 



COLLISION'S BETWEEN THE FRENCH AND SPANISH. 233 

Jie town in ashes. As the Spaniards by their advance 
[•cm Mexico, are threatening his western boundaries 
aving built San Antonio de Bexar, and fortified 
roliad, and even now having their out-posts upon 
'riliitj Eiver, he sends the doughty De La Harpe to 
rotect his frontier, and stay the progress of the invad- 
rs, by building the town of ]^atchitoches, and esta- 
lishing posts on the upper waters of the Ked Eiver. 
Between the intrepid Gfaul and the polite Castilian 
command of his Spanish Majesty's troops upon these 
orders, there ensued a short and spirited correspon- 
ence, the substance of which I here lay before you. 
he Spanish commandant addressed De La Harpe as 
Hows : 

" Monsieur : I am very sensible of the politeness that Monsieur 
Bienville and yourself have had the goodness to show me. The 
der I have received from the king my master is, to maintain a 
od understanding with the French of Louisiana. My own incUna- 
ns lead me equally to afford them all the services that depend upon 
, but I am compelled to say that your arrival at the Nassonite vil- 
;e surprises me very much. Your government could not have been 
lorant that the post you occupy belongs to my government ; and 
Kt all the lands west of the Nassonites depend upon New Mexico. I 
ommend you to give advice of this to Monsieur De Bienville, or 
1 will force me to oblige you to abandon lands that the French have 
right to occupy. I have the honor to be, sir, 

" De La Corne." 

To these compliments and threats De La Harpe an- 
ered, denying the correctness of the representations 



234: FKENCH CHIVALKY IN THE SOUTHWEST. 

made by the Spaniard, asserting the right of theFrencl 
to maintain themselves where he was then in position 
and ending with the following pithy i^hrases :— 

" It was the French who first made alliances with the savage tribe 

in these regions ; and it is natural to conclude that a river which flow 

into the Mississippi and the lands it waters, belong to the king m; 

master. If you wiU do me the pleasure to come into this quarter 

I will convince you that I hold a post which I know how to defend 

I have the honor to be, sir, 

"De La Harpe." 

The Spanish commander discreetly refrained froD 
any attempt to make good his threats ; both Frenc] 
and Spaniards maintained their advanced posts, th 
nearest being only nine miles apart ; and their cor 
flicting claims were only merged in the cession t 
Spain, 1762. 

The indefatigable Bienville, not satisfied wit 
guiding the interior concerns of his favorite colony 
with infinite negotiations and intrigues, supporte 
where necessary with unscrupulous violence, amon 
the various Indian tribes of the Muscogee confed( 
racy, the IsTatchez and those west of the Mississipj 
Eiver, had in view the accomplishment of a vas 
scheme for the establishment of the French authorit 
in Louisiana upon an impregnable basis. In til 
year 1T23, after many efforts, he succeeded in causirl 
the transfer of the seat of government from the hopi 
less sand-beach at Biloxi to his settlement of Ne^ 



GEADUAL GROWTH OF THE COLONY. 235 

Orleans, where by natural gravitation, inhabitants, 
; wealth and trade were rapidly accumulating. A 
survey of the mouth of the Mississippi Jiaving been 
made, the commercial capacities of the port were 
demonstrated. An advantageous centre of oj^erations 
thus gained, almost simultaneous enterprises were 
i undertaken to establish at the margin of an immense 
circle of territory such forts and settlements as should 
secure the colony against the Spaniards to the west, 
northwest, and east, and the English in Carolina to the 
northeast, and at the same time open and protect a 
i-sure communication with the distant sister settlements 
I in Canada. Bernard La Harpe, as we have seen, had 
'already fortified himself upon the Ked River. An 
'attempt was made, unsuccessfully, however, to plant 
a fort upon the Texan coast, near the mouth of the 
Colorado ; Le Sueur established a fort at a point 
estimated to be two thousand two hundred and eighty 
miles from the sea, among the Sioux, upon the Blue 
Earth River, a branch of the St. Peter's, which joins 
the Mississippi. Boisbriant erected the celebrated 
French stronghold of Fort Chartres, in the Illinois 
c<juntry. Fort Conde in Mobile Bay, Fort St. Louis 
in Biloxi Bay, and Fort Toulouse at the head of 
navigation in the Alabama River, all newly stored, 
fortified and garrisoned, completed the series of main 
points upon this immense semicircle ; while the outer 
line and the radii to the centre were made good by 



236 FEENCH CHIVALEY IN THE SOUTHWEST. 

numerous trading-posts, and rapid and constant com- 
munication was maintained on foot and in canoes, by 
traders, detachments of troops, official parties, priests 
and travellers. 

In spite of the continued disappointments of the 
expectations of enormous revenue on the part of the 
Western Company at home, in spite of want and 
misery amongst improvident emigrants, as well as 
even amongst the troops and settlers, in spite of 
endless bickerings and pecuniary mismanagements 
between jealous and greedy colonial officials, of the 
excessive waste of strength, time, men and money in 
premature expeditions to distant wildernesses, and of 
the occasional murmurs and discontents discovered 
now in one Indian tribe and. now in another, the pro- 
gress of the colony on the whole was sure and onward. 

But now the bursting of the fantastic bubble with 
whose gaudy hues John Law had so long fooled all 
France, gives a terrible blow to the struggling young 
commonwealth. Already the company have expend- 
ed more than three hundred and fifty thousand 
dollars, without any equivalent receipts. With great 
difficulty they have from time to time continued to 
send uncertain shipments of supplies, and to maintain 
their various establishments. But the utter prostra- 
tion of business which the destruction of the value oi 
Law's fictitious money brings upon the province, hold^ 
the knife at the throat of the settlements. Every 



SUFFERINGS OF THE COLONISTS. 237 

man is loaded with debts incurred during tlie fatal 
delusion, and reckoned in paper money, which is now 
almost utterly worthless. Inexorable creditors, them- 
selves hard pressed by their obligations, demand pay- 
, ment in silver, which does not exist in the province. 
The difficulty is partly evaded by despotically 
j doctoring the crn'rency, so as to allow the dollar, 
j worth four livres, to pay seven and a half livres of 
debt, and re-establishing its former value ten months 
; afterwards. But business is at a dead stand, and the 
iland is full of discouraged, clamorous, starving set- 
tlers ; for the supplies from France have ceased, and 
the undeveloped agriculture of the little farms 
does not suffice to give them bread. The soldiers are 
dispersed amongst the friendly Indians for food, and 
several large bodies of them mutiny and flee to the 
English, or are barbarously punished. The Germans 
established upon Law's own colony on the Arkansas 
Elver, abandoned and distressed, return en masse 
to ]^ew Orleans, intending to seek again their Euro- 
pean homes. To avoid the pernicious eff'ect of such 
an example, however, new grants of land close along 
the river, are made them, about twenty miles above 
that city. Their skillful industry soon changes the 
Avilderness into gardens ; and the " German coast " 
at^ it is yet called, long supplies the market of the 
little capital w^ith all manner of delicious fruit and 
vegetables. 



238 FEENCH CHIVALKY IN THE SOUTHWEST. 

The wrath of Heaven seemed to join with the folly 
of man to afflict Louisiana. A terrific eqninoctialj 
tornado, in September, 1723, devastated all the south- { 
em portion of the province. At l^ew Orleans the 
fearful blast levelled the church, the hospital and 
thirty dwelling-houses. Several vessels were de- 
stroyed ; the crops of rice, just maturing, were swept 
off; farm-houses were blown down, and infinite in- 
jury done to plantations and improvements. Thisj 
frightful calamity augmented both the famine and: 
the discouragement; and dark indeed seemed the' 
horizon of the future. 

Bienville, however, unmoved as a rock, still held 
the helm of government, and his strong will, vigor- 
ous administrative talent, and marvellous energy 
were felt throughout every portion of the province. 
In spite of these multiplied misfortunes he perse- 
vered ; and during the years immediately following, 
the colony gradually revived to something of pros- 
perity, both in agriculture and in trade, and increased 
in population and wealth. In the midst of this happi- 
ness, Bienville's enemies, who had long and relent- 
lessly pursued him with slanderous dispatches, sent 
to France, and with all manner of insults and maclii 
nations within the colony, at last succeeded in pro 
curing his recall to answer charges of misconduct 
IN'otwithstanding his explorations, the labors of i 
quarter of a century, and their promising results, he 



COLLISIONS WITH THE INDIANS. 239 

was removed, and many of his friends with him ; and 
the governorship bestowed upon M. Perrier. Dis- 

! gusted with this usual return for faithful public ser- 
vices, Bienville remained in France in a private 

' station. 

f For two years after the departure of Bienville, 
" the Father of Louisiana," the colony continued to 
increase and prosper under the authority of M. 
Perrier, his successor. But in 1729 a more fearful 
disaster than tornado or bankruptcy again came like 
a thunderbolt upon the hapless settlers ; a disaster 
the more wretched, because it was the reaction of the 
fiendish passions of barbarians, roused into the most 
ungovernable rage by the wicked and tyrannical folly 
of the victims themselves. 

The Natchez Indians, formerly a powerful nation, 
l)ut now reduced by wars to a fighting force of about 
twelve hundred men, occupied the neighborhood of 
the present city of I^atchez, named after them. Tall, 
strong, and active, of uncommon intellectual power, 
indicated by the high retreating forehead which was a 
peculiarity of the tribe, the Natchez exerted a power- 

r ful influence over the nations near them. They were, 

\ for savages, peaceful and industrious when undisturb- 
ed ; but capable of the most enduring resentment, and 

< bitter and active enemies, in revenge for an injury. 
After a fashion quite the reverse of the usual conduct 
of Frenchmen towards savages, Bienville and the 



240 FRENCH CHrVALKT IN THE SOUTHWEST. 

Other Frencli of Louisiana liad been harassed with 
continual quarrels with the Indians, seemingly caused 
by haughty and unscrupulous maltreatment from the 
Europeans. Although the Natchez had received 
D'Iberville with respect and kindness, yet his brother 
Bienville, a man of strong and imperious will, had, as 
early as 1716, showed great harshness in settling a 
quarrel between the small garrison of Fort Rosalie, 
and the neighboring savages. Again, in 1723, a 
more serious outbreak occurred. By the causeless 
violence of some French soldiers, one warrior was 
killed, and another wounded ; the savages, in revenge, 
waylaid, robbed, and murdered along the frontier ; 
and at length a war party of eighty made an open 
attack upon the settlements. The assailants were re- 
pulsed, but not before two planters were slain, and 
many depredations committed. The chief " Suns," as 
they were called, of the tribe, hastened, however, to 
secure a peace, by treating with the commandant of 
the fort. Bienville now coming on to the post, ratified 
the agreement, and departed in apparent friendship. 
But with a duplicity and ferocity far more shameful 
than that of these ignorant children of the forest, he 
fell suddenly upon them, seven months afterwards, 
with seven hundred troops, ravaged their country with 
fire and sword, mercilessly destroyed men, women and 
children, and sternly insisted that they should buy a 
peace by delivering to death one of their sacred 



FRENCH OUTRAGES. 241 

cliieftains, the Suns. The horrified but helpless In- 
dians ofiered several common warriors to death 
instead ; two successively devoting themselves were 
slain, and their heads offered to Bienville. But the 
inexorable Frenchman persisting, at last succeeded 
in forcing the sacrifice, and thus having exacted his 
own measure of punishment for deeds provoked by 
his fellow Frenchmen, and having chosen in doing it 
to violate every feeling and passion of their savage 
hearts, he returned home in ruthless triumph. The 
unfortunate Natchez, now despairing of any reliable 
amity with the French, repaid for kindness with the 
most bitter insult and with irreparable injuries, and 
seeing the power and the tyranny of their foes 
increase together, in cautious silence began to plot 
revenge, and nurtured their schemes for six years, 
finally to be developed by the attempt to crown the 
long course of injuries by another gratuitous oppres- 
sion, threatened by a subaltern against the nation. 

Chopart, the brutal commandant at Fort Rosalie, 
kad long been the object of peculiar hatred to the 
tribe ; and between him and them there had long been 
going on an exchange of bitter injuries. Having 
been once even cited to l^ew Orleans to answer to 
che complaints against him laid before M. Perrier by 
the ]!^atchez chiefs, he managed to maintain himself in 
his command, and returning to his post gratified his re- 
vengeful anger by contriving new and elaborate insults. 



k 



11 



242 FEENCH CHIYALRT IN THE SOUTHWEST. 

About three leagues from the fort, upon an exten- 
sive and fertile level, stood the village of the White 
Apple Chief, a Sun of the JSTatchez tribe. In the 
open sunny plain, humble and happy homes were 
scattered here and there amongst the wide fields 
of corn, pumpkins and beans, and in the midst, 
upon an artificial mound, and near a rivulet, 
stood the sacred abode of the Grand Sun. Here, 
from time immemorial, generation after generation 
had lived, loved and died ; around this happy spot 
clustered all the associations sacred to their family, 
their nation, their religion. 

The wrathful amazement of the chief cannot be 
pictured, upon being rudely summoned to the pres- 
ence of the brutal commander, and coolly informed 
that he and his nation must forthwith remove their 
habitations to some other spot, and permit their 
sprouting crops to be laid waste. Chopart pretended 
that he needed the ground for a military post ; his 
intention was, at the same time to gratify his insane 
enmity against the Indians, and to lay out a magnifi- 
cent plantation for himself upon the ruins of their, 
dwellings. Gravely hiding his emotion, after the 
decorous savage manner, the Sun replies, that " their: 
fathers for many years have occupied that ground, 
and it is good for their children still to remain on the 
same." The military tyrant threatens violence ; and 
the chief calls his council together to determine upon 



MASSACRE AT FORT ROSALIE. 243 

the proper action in the case. Further forbearance 
was decided upon, and a tribute of a basket of corn 
and a hen fur each cabin being promised, Chopart is 
bribed thereby to postpone the day of destruction 
until the young crops shall have been gathered in. 
But as the time for destroying the village approaches, 
the smothered Hame of savage indignation bums, 
quietly still, but hotter and hotter. In secret council 
the chiefs of the Natchez resolve upon revenging 
their cruel wrongs, and securing themselves for the 
future, by exterminating the whole colony ; killing 
men and enslaving women and children. The secret 
is confined to the chiefs and warriors. Kunners sent 
out in every direction advise the confederate tribes; 
the indomitable and ferocious Chickasaws to the north, 
the northern aMiated bands of their Natchez kins- 
men, the Creeks to the east, and to the west, the 
nearly related tribe of the Tensas, that the time is 
at hand for the execution of the design, which to- 
gether they have so faithfully guarded from suspicion, 
and for whose opportunity they have waited with 
such untiring patience, for six long years. Bundles of 
reeds, equal in number, are distributed to all the vil- 
lages. Beginning with the next new moon, a reed is 
daily to be withdrawn ; and upon the day when the 
last is taken, the attack is to be made. Chopart and 
the garrison receive repeated intimations of the 
approaching danger, but the tyrant's heart is hard- 



244 FEENCH CHIVALKY IN THE SOUTHWEST. 

eiied^ — he grows even more careless of defence or cir- 
cumspection, and meets the messengers with violent 
threats for their pains. 

By some error not sufficiently explained, the ISTat- 
chez bundle of reeds was exhausted too soon. A 
day or two before the proper time, then, the J^atchez 
having learned that a large supply of ammunition 
has just reached Fort Rosalie, conceal weapons within 
their dress, and gradually insinuating themselves in 
considerable numbers within the fort, they chaffer ' 
for powder and ball, which they say they need for a \ 
great hunting match about to come off; and they 
offer uncommonly good bargains in poultry and corn. 
Utterly unsuspicious, the French eagerly take the 
usual white man's advantage of the simple savage, and 
bargain hard. In the bustle of the sales, the number of 
red men who have distributed themselves dispersedly 
all about the buildings is unnoticed. But suddenly 
every Irightened Frenchman sees the wild light of sav- 
fury flame out of the Indian's dark eyes. The Great 
Sun has given the appointed signal ; and before he 
can grasp a weapon, almost before he can cry out, 
the wretched victim is struck down, brained, thrust 
through. Like banded fiends risen through the earth, > 
the red devils strike all together ; and where but one 
moment before the pmiieus of the fort were scattered 
over with laughing or scolding couples, groaning, writh- 
ing men, lie in their gore here and there, and the wild 



EXTERMINATION OF THE GARRISON. 245 

men of the forest, drnnk with the mad joy of assured 
success, cliase hither and thither the screaming sur- 
vivors, and pitilessly slay them in their hiding-places. 
Chopart himself, the scoundrel and tyrant who had 
caused the deed, was struck down among the first. 
Tradition says that he revived again, as if doomed by 
God to behold the fruits of his mad folly ; and rising 
up wounded and bloody, amid the bloody corpses of 
his men, he looked round him upon the horrors of the 
massacre ; and at last, probably still confused with 
his wounds and the dreadful surprise, instead of 
standing on his defence, fled out into the garden, 
and whistled to call his soldiers. They could not 
answer; he might have seen them lying dead all 
around him. The Indians come, however, at his 
signal, and gather about their helpless, hated oppressor 
with unutterable rage and exultation on their swarthy 
faces. They ring him in with weapons and exult 
about him. They say he is a " dog ;" unworthy to be 
slain by a brave man : and so they sendl^or a minister 
to some degrading heathen ceremony, whom the 
early writer, calls the " chief stinking-man." This 
base executioner kills him with a dog's blow ; he 
knocks him in the head with a club ; and thus did 
the wicked commandant, the first and the last of the 
slain, taste, in dreadful measure, the fullness of the 
bitterness of death. 

During the massacre, the Great Sun, seating him- 



246 FRENCH CHIYAI.RT IN THE SOUTHWEST. 

self in tlie Company's warehouse, quietly smoked his 
pipe; while his warriors heaped before him in a 
frightful pyramid the heads of the slain. The 
ghastly pile is crowned with the dead features of the 
officers, and surmounted with the bloody visage of 
Chopart himself. The garrison is dead, the women, 
children and slaves are secured, and now the chief- 
tain bids his warriors go to plunder. The slaves are 
made to bring out the spoil for distribution ; the 
military stores are reserved for public use ; and the 
victorious Indians give themselves up to orgies of 
savage triumph. 

In the beginning of the attack, the houses near the 
fort were fired, and the smoke signalled the assault 
throughout the neighboring settlements. All were 
alike successful. The massacre began about nine in 
the morning. Before noon, two hundred and fifty 
French, every male of the colony of seven hundred 
souls on the St. Catherine's, except a tailor and a 
carpenter, spared to use their handicrafts for the In- 
dians, and two soldiers who were away in the woods, 
slept in death. Tlie like fate fell upon the colonies in 
the Yazoo, on the Washita at Sicily Island, and near 
the site of the present town of Monroe. 

This dreadful blow filled the province with fear 
and mourning. But the revenge of the Frenchmen 
only ended with the utter extermination of the tribe. 
An expedition was sent at once against them, their 



RETALIATION BY THE FRENCH. 247 

fortress besieged, their prisoners and spoil wi'ested 
from them, and the nation only by a dexterous man- 
oeuvre, evacuated the stronghold by night, and fled 
away to the westward. A second expedition ended 
in the reduction of a second fortress, defended by 
enormous earthworks and embracing fom* hundred 
acres, which they had erected at the confluence 
of the Washita and Little Elvers, and in the captiv- 
ity of their principal chiefs and more than four hun- 
dred of the nation — nearly half of it. Yet unsub- 
dued, and as fierce as ever, the remnant of their war- 
riors having unsuccessfully attacked the French post 
at Natchitoches, were in turn assaulted by St. Denis, 
the commander there, and again dispersed with very 
severe loss. The chiefs and others taken in the second 
expedition were sold into slavery in St. Domingo. 
The scattered relics now left, incorporated themselves 
with various Indian tribes ; and the IsTatchez nation 
was utterly extinct ; although some few indivi- 
duals of it have been seen in the town of Natchez 
even within the memory of those now living, still 
distinguished by the commanding form, lofty stature, 
and high retreating forehead, of their race. 

But the war, although entirely successful, had 
drawn heavily upon the strength of the colony. 
For three years every nerve had been strained to 
the utmost to furnish men and supplies for expedition 
after expedition. A small tribe, of kin to the Natchez, 



248 FEENCH CHIVALKY IN THE SOUTHWEST. 

the Chouacas, had been extermiDated on suspicion, by 
way of collateral security. Two dangerous domes- 
tic negro plots had to be quelled ; and amid fear 
and exertions, watchings and anxiety at home, and 
wasteful war abroad, the arts of peace had but ill 
thriven. The "Western Company, at last quite dis- 
couraged, gave up their charter, and remitted Louisi- 
ana into the hands of the crown. The colony, al- 
though always a source of loss to the company, had 
grown, under their management, from seven hundred 
to five thousand souls, and had assured its footing 
upon the lands of Louisiana. 

A few years later, a campaign was resolved upon 
against the Chickasaws. This warlike nation had 
long been inclined to the English interest ; had 
afforded refuge and countenance to numbers of the 
dispersed l^^atchez, and in conjunction with them, 
and stimulated by British traders and emissaries, 
had committed many outrages against the French. 
Growing bolder, they had latterly destroyed the 
thoroughfare for trade and passage on the Missis- 
sippi ; and, doubtless with British advice, even stir- 
red up the negroes near 'New Orleans to a third 
insurrection, which was rapidly ramifying and ripen- 
ing, when it was discovered and cruelly quenched in 
the lives of its ringleaders. 

Bienville, now aged, yet still ambitious, was sent to 
Louisiana to govern the province and command the 



■ A.TTACK UPON THE CHICKASAWS. 249 

expedition. Trusting in his old renown among the 
Indians, he sends a hanghty demand to the Chicka- 
saws, for the surrender of the ISTatchez amongst them ; 
i which is coolly refused, and Bienville forthwith pre- 
pares to inflict upon them a summary chastisement — 
nothing less than the devastation of all their country 
with an irresistible force. He concerts with D'Arta- 
guette, commandant at Fort Chartres in the district of 
the Illinois, a combined plan of operations ; D'Arta- 
guette is to come down the Mississippi with all the 
French and Indians he can muster, and cross to the 
Chickasaw country ; Bienville on his part, moving by 
water to Mobile and up the Tombigbee, will meet 
him there about May 10th, 1736. Accordingly, bur- 
dened with stores and provisions, Bienville moves up 
the river to Fort Tombigbee, newly constructed as a 
military depot, and thence advancing a fortnight later 
than the day set for the junction with D'Artaguette, 
hearing nothing of him, vexed and disa23pointed, yet 
without any alternative, delivers the assault upon 
the Chickasaw towns with his own little army of six 
hundred French and twelve hundred Choctaw allies. 
But in spite of French valor and savage impetuosity, 
of arrow and musket, and hand grenade, of two des- 
perate attacks, the indomitable Chickasaws, fortified 
with the help of British traders, of whom numbers 
are within their intrenchments, beat them off with 
tremendous loss. In terrible mortification, heariug 
11^ 



250 FRENCH CHIVALKT IN THE SOUTHWEST. 

no news from D'Artaguette, hopeless of success with- 
out artillery, against fortifications so unexpectedly 
strong, the disappointed old chief dismisses his sav- 
age allies with gifts and good words, retreats to his 
fort, casts the artillery there into the river, and 
defeated and ashamed, returns to New Orleans. 
There he presently receives the bitter news that the 
gallant young D'Artaguette, having kept his appoint- 
ment, and on his part, hearing nothing from his supe- 
rior, had waited, encamped in sight of the enemy, 
until he could no longer restrain his Indian auxilia- 
ries, and had against his own judgment, attacked the 
foe. Driving the stubborn Chickasaws from one for- 
tified village, they occupy a second. A second furi- 
ous assault dislodges them from that ; and taking 
refuge in a third, the valor of the assailants has 
already a third time decided the battle, when in the 
moment of victory their daring young leader receives 
first one wound and then another, and falls. His 
unstable Indians, seeing this, turn and flee ; the obstin- 
ate Chickasaws, thus relieved, precipitate themselves 
upon the thinning ranks of the French, who, few, wea- 
ried and deserted, are forced to follow. Under the com- 
mand of Yoisin, a lad of sixteen, they retreat desper- 
ately seventy-five miles with their enemy yet hanging 
close upon them; sc hundred and thirty-five miles 
before they eat, and bearing with them the strong- 
est of the wounded. D'Artaguette, his comnanioi) 



ATTACK UPON THE CHICKA8AW8. 251 

Yincennes, his priest, the Jesuit Senat, and others of 
his men to the number of nineteen, are captured, and 
at first well-treated, with a view to ransom or negotia- 
tion with Bienville. But upon his discomfiture, the 
hapless men are burned alive with all the triumphant 
ingenuity of the Indian torture. 

Bienville yet plans another campaign ; he cannot 
rest until he shall have punished the Chickasaws. 
revenged his lost countrymen, and vindicated his own 
and his country's fame. So he organizes a second 
expedition, and this time he ascends the Mississippi, 
designing to fall upon the foe from the north. But 
the old man is unequal to the occasion ; he has lost 
the tremendous and untiring energy which had so 
long been the protection and life of the province, and 
delays and consequent sickness and famine, enfeeble 
his army even before the real advance of the expedi- 
tion. Having wasted almost a whole year, a little 
phantom of an army, all that is left, advances and 
meets the Chickasaws ; its commander, by Bienville's 
authority, gladly seizes the opportunity to make a 
treaty with the Indians, who think this insignificant 
force only the advanced guard of the French. And 
so a second time, his men and stores wasted, disap- 
pointed and chagrined, even more shamefully than 
before, Bienville returns down the river to Kew 
Orleans. 

The Chickasaws have never been conquered. De 



252 FKENCH CHIYALET IN THE SOTJTHWEST. 

Soto, Bienville, D'Artaguette, and Yandreuil, Bien- 
ville's successor, who repeated the attempt some years- 
later with like success, all failed most memorably. 
Their Indian foes never overcame them : they have 
as yet been impregnable in their savage patriotism. 

Bienville in disgrace and sorrow returned to 
France, superseded by the Marquis de Yaudreuil; 
and terminated in sadness and misfortune a long and 
honorable life. 

Under the wise administration of the Marquis de 
Yaudreuil, and of his successor M. de Kerlerec, the 
province of Louisiana began to flourish mightily. 
Within ten years after the close of the Chickasaw war, 
the French king was undisputed master of the whole 
vast valley of the Mississippi. His name and autho- 
rity were reverenced by all the tribes ; his officers 
and messengers governed and travelled with safety 
and honor ; and under the shadow of his protecting 
power, population and wealth rapidly accumulated. 
The vast sweep of territory formed by the two 
immense valleys of the Mississippi and St. Lawrence, 
formed a great barrier around that narrow coast-wise 
strip on the comparatively barren eastern slope of the 
Alleghanies, which included the English possessions ; 
and there seemed to be every reason for supposing 
that the French power must remain immeasurably 
preponderant upon the continent of i^orth America. 

So enormous a portion of the earth's meridian did 



GROWTH OF THE LOUISIANA PROVINCE. 253 

the province of Louisiana cover, tliat it possessed 
that almost certain guarantee for continued integral 
existence, an interior commerce almost or entirely 
self-sufficient and self sustaining. Yearly the number 
of keel-boats and barges increased, on which there 
came down from the upper valley, flour, pork, bacon, 
hides, leather, tallow, bears'-oil, furs, lumber, all the 
products of fertile temperate regions ; and in which 
there went up the equivalents; the rice, indigo, 
tobacco, sugar, cotton ; for all these rich staples were 
already naturalized in the colony, on the lower banks 
of the Mississippi ; as well as the manufactured mer- 
chandise of distant Europe. There was once or 
twice a destructive tornado, or a cruel frost ; but the 
strong province no longer felt such a dispensation as 
anything more than a light misfortune. 

M. de Yaudreuil, to check the growing incursions 
of the Chickasaws, led against them the expedition 
which has already been alluded to ; but the warlike 
savages were fortified even better than before ; and 
from their inaccessible holds, which were so regularly 
and strongly palisaded, ditched, and flanked with 
block-houses as to be impregnable without artillery, 
they safely beheld the devastation of their crops and 
the destruction of their wigwams ; a futile vengeance, 
of little significance to them, and of less to Yau- 
dreuil, who had to carry his imsatisfied wrath back 
with him, and unlaurelled to digest it as he might. 



254 FEENCH CHTVALET IN THE SOUTHWEST. 

E'ow, however, commenced tlie old French, war ; 
that savage eight years' struggle between England 
and France, which was to wrench the supremacy upon 
this continent from the latter power, and to detain it 
for a few years in the hands of the former, as if in 
temporary trust, for the use of the strong republic 
in whose gi-asp it now remains. All along the vast 
frontier line, England and France meddled with fron- 
tiersmen and savages ; and all along the line the hot 
but flickering flame of the Indian wars began to 
burn. The chief struggle, however, was in Canada ; 
the settlements in Louisiana and the Illinois, girt by 
wide and pathless forests, remained untouched by the 
war, and peacefully pursued their farming and their 
trade. The only sorrow that fell upon them was the 
embarrassment arising from the inundation of govern- 
ment drafts and notes set afloat in payment for sup- 
plies, which it could not redeem, and which ham- 
pered and perplexed the business of the valley until 
the end of the war. 

One day in the early part of this war, a fleet of 
boats and barges is descried, descending the yellow 
current of the river. It is moored at the city, and a 
toilworn band of Frenchmen, ragged, penniless, 
famine-struck, along with sad wives and mournful 
children, disembarks. They enter the astonished 
town, as suppliants for charity. Their doleful story 
is soon told. Nearly three thousand miles away, 



DESTRXJCTTON OF A FRENCH COLOISTT. 255 

upon tlie bleak northern shores of Acadia, first under 
the mild government of their native France, and 
afterwards under the harsher but unresisted dominion 
of the English, they had inhabited the pleasant homes 
which their brave industry had conquered from the 
inhospitable soil and climate. The English court, on 
the heartless, baseless, and cruel pretence that these 
simple hearted habitans would rise against their con- 
querors, in aid of their brethren in Canada, deliber- 
ately resolved upon the fiendish measure of rooting 
up, robbing, and casting fortli into helpless beggary 
the people of the entire province. Upon this devil's 
errand came an army to seize them, and a fleet to 
carry them. Helpless and unarmed, resistance was 
impossible, undreamed of. Lest, however, they 
should seek to return to their desolate homes, their 
money and property are stripped from them, and 
those homes are burned before their very eyes. Thus 
houseless and destitute, the stupefied wretches are 
hurried aboard of the fleet, and in miserable groups, 
as pirates use their victims, landed naked and des- 
pairing on one and another barren sand-hill all along 
the desert coast of E'ew Jersey, Delaware, Maryland 
and Yirginia. 

The compassion of the neighboring people and 
authorities fm*nished them the necessary succor. 
But not able to endure the tongue even, or the com- 
panionship, of these subjects of the tyrant power, 



256 FRENCH CHIYALRT IN THE SOUTHWEST. 

with a desperate hardihood nearly allied to the resist- 
less stings of instinct, they gathered up the little 
resources which the friendly Anglo-Americans gave 
them, set their faces steadfastly westward, and in 
spite of peril and hardship, traversed a thousand 
miles of pathless primeval forest ; embarked on the 
Ohio ; and floated down two thousand miles more to 
the settlements of their happier kinsmen. 

The whole city rose up to meet them. Every 
heart and home was opened wide to receive the 
unfortunate wanderers, to minister to their wants, to 
relieve their sorrows. Public benevolence vied with 
private charity in the noble strife of kindness. An 
allotment of land was granted to every family, and 
until they should be settled in the safe possession of 
means for their own support, to every household was 
dealt out from the royal store-houses, seeds, husband- 
man's tools, and daily sufficient rations of food. 
Thus was settled next above the " German Coast," 
which had been, allotted to the refugees from the 
Arkansas settlement, that stretch of the Mississippi 
shore yet known as the " Acadian Coast." That 
neighborhood yet contains many of the descendents 
of those wanderers from the north, and in their 
hearts yet burns the fire of inextinguishable here di- 
ary enmity against the nation of their brutal oppress- 
ors, the English. 

The war raged fiercely in the north ; and over one 



CESSION OF TERRITORY TO THE BRITISH. 257 

Stronghold after another, the British lion replaced 
the white flag of France. Large numbers of Cana- 
dians, fleeing from the hated dominion of their con- 
querors, following upon the track of the Acadians, or 
across the well-known route through the Illinois coun- 
try, came down the river ; some halting, and settling 
however, on the Upper Mississippi ; and thus the 
population of the province received a large and valu- 
able augmentation at the expense of Britain. 

In 1763, by the treaty of Paris, the beaten and 
humbled kingdom of France, exhausted with the 
long and distant struggle, unwillingly yielded the 
prize of the strife, and ceded to England the enor- 
mous territory of Canada and the whole Mississippi 
valley, east of the river, except a small portion south 
of Bayou Iberville (or Manchac), including 'New 
Orleans. By the same treaty Spain ceded to Eng- 
land the whole of Florida; and thus did Great 
Britain gain all ITorth America east of the Mis- 
sissippi. 

The French posts in the Illinois, and Forts Rosalie, 
Baton Rouge, Toulouse, and Conde, were soon in the 
hands of English garrisons, and the southern portion 
of the new acquisition being erected into the govern- 
ments of East and West Florida, the provincial 
organizations of the English were speedily com- 
pleted, upon a sort of mixed footing, half military 
and half civil. Many of the French, impatient of 



258 FRENCH CHIYALKT IN THE SOUTHWEST. 



the English yoke, flee across to the western side of ' 

the Mississippi, or within the immediate depend en 

cies of New Orleans, that they may still live beneath 

the beloved rule of their native monarch. But the 

rumor creeps about that western Louisiana too has j 

passed away from the power of the French king ; | 

that province, people and all, have been given S 

fi 
secretly away into the hands of Spain. As the Ij 

story gains consistency and belief, murmurs of dis- 1| 

satisfaction and anger increase ; and when at last the jj 

definite confirmation of the report comes in dis- 1] 

patches to M. Abadie, the governor ad interim^ the ;| 

disappointed inhabitants are in so dangerous audij 

wrathful a ferment that the Spaniards hesitate to I 

attempt taking possession, and for many months'" 

await the discontinuance of the excitement. But it 

rather increases. Conscious of dutiful and loving 

services to the French crown, unable to understand 

the reason of this heartless diplomatic transfer, hurt 

and angry, yet still hoping that the misfortune is not 

inevitable, they meet together, and appoint deputies 

to present the urgent and humble petition of the 

province, that they may by some means be retained 

within the paternal rule of France. Their delegate, 

M. Milhet, a wealthy and respected merchant, 

reaching Paris, enlists the aged Bienville, now 

eighty-seven years old, in his cause, and together 

they lay their entreaties and those of the provmce, ij 



CESSION OF WESTERN LOUISIANA TO SPAIN. 259 

before the prime minister. But " reasons of State " 
have little to do with the rights, or wishes, or love 
of a people. The transfer is a foregone conclusion. 
The minister, resolved upon the measure, artfully 
manages to keep M. Milhet from an audience with 
the king, and he returns disappointed and discour- 
aged. A second time he goes, and a second time 
comes hopeless home. Don Antonio de Ulloa, with 
a Spanish force, at last enters New Orleans, but per- 
ceiving the depth of the feeling he had to encounter, 
he delays presenting his commission, and waits for 
more troops. They arrive ; yet he delays. It is 
nearly three years since the province was thus 
given away, and yet the popular dissatisfaction 
rather increases. A strong fleet is heard of at 
Havana; it is feared that it is intended for the 
province ; the people are upon the verge of armed 
insurrection. Ulloa, a temporizing man, being at 
length called upon by the superior council of the 
province, either to produce his authority or to leave 
the country, determines to do the latter, and embarks 
on one of the Spanish vessels in the river. The 
populace cut the cables by night. She drops down 
the stream, and does not return, and her consorts 
follow. Once more a petition is sent to the French 
king; but now, a strong Spanish force, under the 
stern and energetic Don Alexander O'Reilly, is 
already on the way to the province. With short 



260 FRENCH CHIVALET IN THE SOUTHWEST. 

preliminary delay, to advise tlie aiitiiorities of his 
approach, he ascends the Mississippi, anchors before 
the city, disembarks his troops, and in public, before 
the displeased and silent populace, but amidst the 
cheers of the soldiery, formally receives possession 
of Western Louisiana for the crown of Spain. The 
French flag is lowered, the Spanish hoisted in its 
stead, and the Spanish authority is forthwith installed 
throughout the province. 

The aggregate population of "Western Louisiana 
alone at the time of the transfer, was more than thir- 
teen thousand five hundred souls ; and the exports 
of the province for the past year had reached the 
amount of a quarter of a million of dollars. 

O'Reilly, the Spanish Governor, and a true Span- 
iard, haughty, passionate, gloomy and false, promised 
oblivion for offences past, and pardon to all who 
should submit to his authority. Yet almost his first 
official act was the sudden arrest of four of the most 
prominent French citizens, who were treacherously 
seized and hurried away to a place of military impris- 
onment, while at an entertainment at O'Reilly's own 
house, upon his own invitation. Within a few days 
the tyrant unmasked himself still further by arresting 
eight more well-known citizens. Of these twelve, 
one was murdered by his guards in attempting to 
reach his frantic wife, who strove to visit him ic 
prison ; five were shot in public, and their estates 



OPPRESSION OF THE SPANISH GOVEENOK. 261 

confiscated ; four imprisoned in the dungeons of the 
Moro at Havana, and two only acquitted. 

O'Reillj having thus substituted the silence of fear 
for the murmurs of dissatisfaction, proceeded to 
abohsh all the French forms of government, and to 
erect the Spanish courts and municipal institutions 
instead, both in city and couiitiy. Spanish became 
the official language in keeping all records and pro- 
ceedings ; and this change having been fully com- 
pleted, many Spanish immigrants began to enter the 
province, even so numerously, as to produce for a 
time a serious scarcity of provisions. 

In this change of laws, the ferocious and despotic 
governor paid no heed to the customs or preferences 
of the French ; and established so many regulations 
of a character oppressive to them, that many of the 
most valuable citizens of that nation fled out of that 
country to St. Domingo. Hereupon, the governor 
refused to grant further passports, and thus forced 
them to remain under the tyranny of his harsh 
administration. 

O'Keilly's conduct, however, brought upon him the 
severe displeasure of his sovereign ; and at the end 
of one year he was recalled to Spain in disgrace. 

Under the administrations of a succession of able 
and moderate governors, Unzaga, Galvez, who 
enlarged his government by re-conquering from Eng- 
land for Spain the temporary possession of all Florida, 



262 FRENCH OHIVALKY IN THE SOUTHWEST. 

Miro, and Carondelet, the government of Louisiana 
was of a wise and liberal character. The oppressive 
restrictions of O'Reilly were rescinded, and many 
judicious measures were taken to confirm and increase 
the strength and prosperity of the province. 

Under Governor Miro's administration it was that 
the first and only attempt was made to introduce into 
the province that terrific auxiliary engine of Catholic 
polity, the Komish Inquisition. Under his mild, 
wise, and popular management of the province, 
the Pope, not satisfied with the exclusive official 
recognition of the Roman Catholic faith, and with the 
support of its establishment by government funds, 
thought proper to provide for the pestilent heresies 
which it was apprehended would creep in from the 
United States by appointing a clergyman of 'New 
Orleans, Commissary of the Holy Ofl&ce. Miro, 
under the royal instructions, notified the ecclesiastics 
of the king's prohibition of the exercise of this 
authority within the 23rovince, and forbade him there- 
from ; but the priest, on the usual plea of clerical 
usurpers, that he must obey G-od rather than man, 
coolly proceeded to the performance of the inter- 
dicted duties. Miro, however, took prompt meas- 
ures to enforce his orders ; and the refractory father 
was awakened at midnight by an officer with eighteen 
grenadiers, against whom his spiritual weapons not 
availing, he was quickly stowed aboard of a vessel 



EXPANSION OF THE ANGLO- AMERICAN ELEMENT. 263 

just ready to sail for Spain, and by daylight next 
morning was safely on his way to Europe. The dis- 
couraged Romish see made no further efforts to intro- 
duce this instrument of pontifical tyranny into 
Louisiana. 

But now the utmost settlements and still more 
advanced pioneers of yet another civilization, begin 
to press closer and closer upon the Spanish frontiers. 
All the vast valley east of the Mississippi, from the 
distant northern lakes down to the present borders of 
Georgia, and the southern line of Tennessee is filling 
up with hunters, traders, and close behind them with 
the steadily advancing ranks of agricultural settlers. 
Agricultural products increase and multiply ; and by 
necessary consequence the swelling currents of trade 
seek their natural outlet by the river, and their natural 
depot at New Orleans. The free and bold Anglo- 
Americans will bring a vast commerce yearly to that 
city, but they are unaccustomed to restrictions upon 
trade, or to the tedious formalisms of the Spanish 
authorities. These last on their part, are apprehen- 
sive exceedingly of the effects to be feared from the 
contact of such men with the inflammable and even 
yet unreconciled French Creoles, and especially of 
their securing a footing as landed settlers within the 
province. The laws respecting land grants are or- 
dered to be most strictly construed in the impediment 
of any applicants from the United States. A most 



264 FRENCH CHIVALET IN THE SOUTHWEST. 

irritating and vexatious system of inspections and 
arbitrary duties is set up along the river, and enforced 
by fine or confiscation. The Spanish officials who, 
with their forms and ceremonies, have imported at 
least a full share of the shameful corruptions of their 
native tribunals, are most prone to this latter penalty ; 
that they may turn the proceeds into their private 
treasures instead of that of the State. And, more- 
over, there is long dispute and reluctant delay 
on the part of Spain before withdrawing from the 
" Natchez District," east of the river, although it is 
confessedly north of the true boundary between the 
United States and the Spanish province of Florida. 
The farmers of Kentucky and Ohio and all the wide 
northwest grow more and more impatient ; and the 
hot-blooded Georgians insist upon the occupation of 
their rightful domain to the westward. They vow 
revenge against Spain, and they even threaten the 
federal government for delaying to secure for them 
their natural and necessary rights. The Spanish 
governors, taking advantage of their circumstances, 
intrigue long and industriously to induce the young 
commonwealths within the valley to secede, and either 
swear allegiance to the Spanish crown, or to set up a 
union for themselves under its protection. There is 
a party for each of these hopeful schemes. There is 
another and a stronger one for the armed invasion of 
Louisiana, and the seizure by force of a right so clear 



PURCHASE OF THE LOUISIANA TERRITORY. 265 

and so pre-eminently necessary as that of a free out- 
let for commerce ; so strong, indeed, that the federal 
government was more than once on the extreme verge 
of adopting their enterprise, or of forcibly preventing 
it. Spanish agents are busy here and there ; and the 
well-known Wilkinson is the chief centre of an inex- 
tricable net of intrigue, actuated probably by many 
mixed motives, good and bad. While vexed with the 
progress of these restless, fearless, and ungovernable 
Anglo-Americans, the Spanish court is summoned by 
Napoleon Bonaparte to hand the province of Louisi- 
ana over to him. Weak and helpless, it has no 
resource but to obey. But finding his hands even 
over-full with the business which his enemies cut 
out for him on the continent of Europe, Kapoleon 
resolves to give up his scheme of an armed occupa- 
tion of Louisiana, and negotiates a sale of it to the 
United States, for sums and payments equivalent in 
all to sixteen millions of dollars ; and so the formal 
cession of the province by Spain to France is com- 
pleted between Governor Salcedo and the Marquis 
de Casa Calvo, commissioners on the part of Spain, 
and M. Laussat, French commissioner, ISTovember 
30th, 1803. The French frame of government was 
barely instituted, to be superseded ; and on the 20th 
of the following December, Governor William C. C. 
Claiborne received possession of Louisiana for the 

United States amidst great display and rejoicing. 

12 



266 FEENCH CHIVALKT IN THE SOUTHWEST. 

Tims, after an intermittent possession during more 
than a century, counting from the landing of D'lber- 
ville upon the sands of Dauphin Island, and for 
about a century and a quarter from La Salle's formal 
ceremony of possession, the French rule in Louisiana 
came to a definite termination, and the French popu- I 
lation, as well as the small Spanish element, became | 
in form, incorporated with the dominant Anglo-Ame- 
rican race. But even at this present writing, the 
French Creoles are the mass of population in many 
of the Louisiana parishes, and among them the 
French tongue and many French customs and charac- 
teristics, are so afi'ectionately and carefully main- 
tained, that they are yet a peculiar, though a peaceful 
and law-abiding people. A large section of l^ew 
Orleans itself is inhabited almost exclusively by 
Creoles ; the local laws of the State yet contain a 
very decided, if not predominant, infusion of the 
old Roman jurisprudence transferred from the Corpus 
Juris Civilis, the Pandects and the Code of Justinian, 
through the French codes, to the State statute-book ; 
and the laws and public proceedings and records of 
Louisiana are published in duplicate, in French and 
English. 

Louisiana, as first claimed for France by La Salle, 
in 1682, under that name (which, however, had been; 
selected and bestowed by " the Great Liar," as the 
French called Hennepin, a year earlier) is defined in 



HISTORICAL TRADITIONS. 267 

the pj'oces verbal of the ceremony of taking possession 
substantially as including the whole valley of the 
Mississippi and of its tributaries, from the Ohio 
Kiver to the Gulf. Upon the double cession of this 
vast territory to Great Britain and Spain in 1763, 
that portion of the valley east of the river lost the 
name of Louisiana, which consequently now 
designated the Mississippi basin west of the river, 
together with that small district east of it, called 
the Island of N^ew Oj'leans, and an unsettled claim 
over the present State of Texas, to the Colorado 
River. 

Don Bernard Galvez subsequently annexed, by 
conquest from England, the " JSTatchez " and " Baton 
Kouge " districts, thereby carrying the boundary of 
Louisiana east of the Mississippi to some distance 
north of the thirty-first degree of north latitude, and 
eastward nearly to the present boundary of Georgia. 

The subsequent unwilling cession to the United 
States, of the northern portion of this territory, 
finally consummated in 1798, and the acquisition of 
the province by Napoleon, at which time Louisiana 
east of-the river, except the Island of 'New Orleans, 
was annexed to Florida, again restricted these limits. 
Lower Louisiana, upon organization as a territory of 
the United States, was called the Territory of Orleans, 
and at last, upon its admission to the Union as a 
State, the name of Louisiana was conferred upon that 



V. 



268 FRENCH OHIYALRY IN THE SOUTHWEST. 

territory, some additions being made to it upon tlie 
north and east. 

The annals of the French occupation of Louisiana 
contain many of those curious traditions and narra- 
tives of adventure and character which lend so deep 
a tinge of romance to the early days of colonial com- 
monwealths. Indians, Frenchmen, Germans, Span- 
iards, English, Scotch, Irish, and all manner of half- 
breeds and mixed bloods, trading, hunting, fighting, 
intriguing, wandering or settling, as the case might 
be, pass in fantastic confusion across the scene, and 
add all the interest of human passions in their fiercest 
play, to the wild beauty and savage grandeur of the 
varied landscape of that vast region. Brief relations 
of some few of these early tales, will both relieve the 
gravity of the historical narrative, and supply vivid 
representations of the life and manners of the times, 
as well as indispensable items towards the full under- 
standing even of the present situation of the country. 

The Chevalier D'Aubant, an ofiicer in the garrison 
at Mobile, observed one day a female of humble 
dress, yet ladylike carriage, whose features he seemed 
to have seen before. Refiecting upon the varied 
sights of his erratic life, he is startled at the idea that 
the face of the nameless emigrant, who has come to 
Mobile with the German settlers for John Law's dis- 
tant grant upon the Arkansas Eiver, is one which he 
had seen at St. Petersburg. She is, he cannot but 



ESrCIDENTS OF FOREST LIFE. 269 

believe, the same whom in that distant capital he had 
• seen high in place, and surrounded with all the semi- 
barbaric splendor of the court of the great Czar Peter 
— the wife of the Czarowitz, or heir-apparent, the 
luckless Alexis Petrowitz, the victim of his brutal 
father's mad passions. Growing more and more 
certain of his opinion, he accosts the fair fugitive, yet 
a delicate and beautiful ladj, with chivalrous respect. 
Confused at the recognition, she yet confesses that he 
is right ; and upon his promise to preserve her secret, 
she tells him a wild adventurous story ; how her half- 
crazy husband, the Czarowitz, had so vilely abused 
her, that as the only effectual escape from, him she 
had pretended death, been actually entombed, and 
freed from her grave a few hours afterwards, had 
fled in poverty and obscurity, she scarcely knew 
whither, from the splendid terrors of her frightful 
princess-ship. Beautiful she was ; accomplished and 
good, D'Aubant knew or believed her to be, and his 
sincere and ardent courtship very speedily prevailed 
upon her to marry him. He afterwards held various 
commands in the province, during one of which, at 
Poi-t Toulouse, near the present town of Wetumpka, 
she long occupied a little cabin near the fort, where 
she used to pass many hours in sporting with the 
Indian childi-en. She was an attached and faithful 
wife, and following her husband in his wandering 
military life to France, and then to the Isle of Bour- 



270 FRENCH CHIVALRY m THE SOUTHWEST. 

bon, in the Indian Ocean, where he died, she returned 
to Paris with a little daughter, and in 1771 ended, 
in lieep poverty, a long and mysteriously eventful 
life. 

In the same town of Mobile, where the disguised 
princess landed, there died in 1757, by unjust and 
barbarous torture, another person, whose character, 
prowess, adventures and fate, were yet more charac- 
teristic of the French colonial regime. 

There was a French woodsman and solitary hunter 
named Beaudrot, a man of giantly size, of tremen- 
dous and athletic strength and endurance, of great 
renown for skill and bravery, and an especial favorite 
with the Indians. He was also much beloved by 
Bienville, the famous French governor, and often 
employed by him upon secret and dangerous missions 
of importance amongst the Creeks and other tribes, 
many of whose dialects, and all whose customs, he 
perfectly understood. Endowed with the genuine 
kindness of heart which so often characterizes men of 
great physical strength, he had repeatedly used his 
peculiar advantages in the interest of captives amongst 
the savages ; saving more lives than one, even if 
the ransom cost him all the profits of his rude traffic. 

Beaudj-ot was one night returning alone through 
the forest upon what was called the Chattahouchie 
trail, from Fort Toulouse, to the commandant at which 
post he had carried a letter from Governor Bienville. 



INCIDENTS OF FOREST LIFE. 271 

The night comes down upon liim far within the forest, 
for indeed the journey is of many days. The wary 
and hardy wanderer, not kindling any fire for fear of 
discovery by Indians, according to his custom when 
alone, ensconces himself close beneath a huge pine 
log, and sleeps with the light sleep of the Indian 
hunter, upon the dry pine leaves, his head upon his 
knapsack. Light steps awaken him ; listening motion- 
lessly, his quick ears distinguish the guttural sounds 
of a low conversation between Indians, not so distant 
but that he can judge of their numbers and discern 
their purpose and circumstances. They kindle a fire 
of lightwood ; the hidden giant is within the circle 
of its brilliant glare ; and but for the shelter of his 
log, had surely been discovered. Stealthily peering 
from his concealment, he sees three stout warriors 
eating their supper ; but his kind and brave heart 
beats quick at the sightof a white man their prisoner, 
bound, and so tied to a tree as to be obliged to stand 
upright. The Indians complete their frugal meal, 
with small care for the appetite of their prize ; and 
leaving him to stand in sleepless weariness all night, 
they fall asleep. Beaudrot has recognized the pris- 
oner, a Frenchman, owning a small plantation on the 
Tensas River ; and waiting impatiently until the war- 
riors are snoring in secnre slumber^ he noiselessly 
approaches. His first impulse is to discover himself, 
loose the captive, give him a pistol, and with him to 



272 FRENCH CHIVALEY EST THE SOUTHWEST. 

attacK the sleepers. But the poor frightened fellow 
would cry out at sight of him; and the risk forbids 
that scheme. So, creeping along, he manages to place 
himself in such a position that his heavily charged car- 
bine covers two of the warriors, lying close together. 
JHe fires ; both of them are killed ; the third, leaping 
instinctively from sleep to the attack, forgetting his 
gun, and armed only with his hatchet, Beaudrot fires 
a pistol into his stomach. The Creek whoops and 
falls dead. Beaudrot now hastens to untie his bewil- 
dered fellow countryman, who, however, informs him 
that the three warriors wer§ only a detached party ; and 
that ten others returning from a further expedition 
against the settlements, are doubtless not far off upon 
the trail. Beaudrot, hereupon, makes straight for the 
Alabama Biver with the rescued prisoner ; builds a 
raft, and after floating some distance down the stream, 
pulls the frail vehicle in pieces, sets the fragments 
adrift, and the two fugitives plunge deep into a dreary 
swamp on the further bank. It is daylight; and 
quite secured against pursuit by these prompt, multi- 
plied, and cunning precautions, they call a halt, and 
the intrepid woodsman revives his friend and himself, 
from his slender stores of bread and dried venison, 
and by the judicious administration of some small 
draughts from a certain little bottle of brandy. Thus 
refreshed, and with a few hours' rest, they set out again 
and Beaudrot's skill supports them on game, until 



MILITARY TYRANNY. 273 

after a tedious marcli through the forest, they arrive 
in safety at Mobile. 

By such deeds is the valiant Beaudrot endeared to 
the men of Mobile and thereabouts. But, at last, upon 
some unjust pretext, during the administration of Gov- 
ernor Kerlerec, some years after, we find him impris- 
oned at a frontier French post on Cat Island, by the ty- 
rannical command of a monster of the Chopart school, 
named Duroux ; who had long exercised the most 
degrading oppression over the helpless privates of his 
command. He forced his soldiers to cultivate his 
gardens ; to burn coal, to make lime ; and he sold the 
produce of their labor for his own profit. Those who 
refused the unsoldierly duty he would have tied naked 
to trees, to endure the poisonous stings of the blood- 
thirsty insects of the swamp. Some of those thus 
tortured fled to New Orleans with their complaints ; 
but apparently from some fancied necessity such as 
often governs military discipline, of maintaining 
authority, however abused, Kerlerec sends them back 
to their duty unsatisfied. Duroux now increases his 
abuses, and deprives them of all food except spoiled 
bread. The wretched men, furious at their misery, 
conspire against their tyrant, slay him, strip the 
corpse and cast it out unburied into the sea; and 
then rifling the stores at the little fort, for once they 
enjoy sumptuous fare. 

But after such mutiny they can no longer remain 



274 FRENCH CHIVALRY IN THE SOUTHWEST. 

in the French colony ; so they release Beandrot from 
prison, and compel him to act as their guide towards 
the English in Georgia. Doubtless, he was not much 
grieved at the opportunity ; and so he leads them in 
good faith tlirough distant and circuitous routes to 
the Indian town of Coweta on the Chattahoochie, and 
there receiving from them a formal certificate that lie 
was not concerned in the death of Duroux, and had 
acted by compulsion in assisting their flight, they 
dismiss him, and he returns quietly to his home near 
Mobile. 

Months afterward he is suddenly imprisoned by 
the commandant there ; and in the dungeon he finds 
three of the soldiers whom he had assisted to escape. 
Lingering unwisely amongst the hospitable Indians 
about Coweta, and the circumstances coming to the 
knowledge of the authorities, a detachment from Fort 
Toulouse had arrested the poor fellows, and after 
due examination and communication, the order for 
Beaudrot's arrest had been sent from ^N'ew Orleans to 
Mobile in a sealed package by the hands of two of 
his own sons, who were thus the ignorant means of 
their father's death. He was condemned by a court- 
martial, in spite of his certificate and other testi- 
mony ; and amid the sympathy and horror-struck 
grief of the people of Mobile, was broken on the 
wheel — that is, bound naked to a cart wheel erected 
for the pm-pose upon a post through its axis, his 

12* 



ANECDOTE OF MONTBERAUT. 276 

limbs broken one after another by blows from an 
iron bar, and so left to die. A fate even more 
frightful awaited the wretched soldiers. They were 
privates of the Swiss regiment of Hallwyl ; and 
accordiog to an ancient traditional barbarous usage 
extant amongst those troops, having been brought 
forth upon the esplanade before Fort Cond6, they 
were each nailed down in a tight wooden coffin, and 
sawed asunder, man, box and all, with a cross-cut 
saw by two sergeants. These unrelenting and hideous 
punishments strongly exhibit the terrific and unscrupu- 
lous rigor with which military discipline was main- 
tained in those distant regions, as well as the obedient 
and timid character of a population who could 
patiently acquiesce in them-. 

Bossu, a captain of marines, published, in 1771, his 
Travels in Louisiana, which contain many anmsing 
accounts of his experiences while stationed there in 
the days of which we are speaking. Upon one occa- 
sion, having conducted a detachment to Fort 
Toulouse, he learned a characteristic incident illustra- 
tive of the Jesuits and of their relations to the French 
military officers. Montberaut, commanding the fort, 
a gentleman, possessed, like so many others of his 
nation both of the attainments and manners of a 
polished and courtly gentleman, and of the seemingly 
incongruous qualifications which led him into a sort 
of sworn brotherhood and great influence with the 



276 FKENCH CHIVALRY IN THE SOUTHWEST. 

tribes, despised the Jesuits, who were stationed at the 
fort, and was always at enmity with them. Father 
Le Eoy, a Jesuit, wrote to the governor, abusing Mont- 
beraut without stint, and advising his removal. The 
messenger showed the letter to the commandant, who 
quietly pocketed it. Meeting the priest next morning, 
the reverend gentleman, as Bossu slily says, " accord- 
ing to the political principles of these good fathers," 
was excessively civil ; whereupon Montberaut took 
occasion incidentally to ask him if he had written 
anything unfavorable to him. The Jesuit swore he 
had not ; whereupon Montberaut called him a cheat 
and an impostor, and nailed up his letter at the gate 
of the fort ; after which time, according to Bossu, there 
were no Jesuits to be found among the Creeks and 
Alabamas. 

The country inhabited by those tribes, Bossu found 
exceedingly lovely and fertile, and thickly peopled 
by hospitable and happy savages. A. J. Pickett, 
from whose exceedingly valuable and entertaining 
History of Alabama we have obtained many of the 
facts here narrated, referring to the wild beauty of 
that delicious region, unaffectedly and quaintly thus 
laments over the so-called " improvements " of late 
introduced. 

" But now the whole scene is changed. The coun- 
try is no longer half so beautiful; the waters of 
Alabama begin to be discolored ; the forests have 



277 



been cut down ; steamers have destroyed the finny 
race ; deer bound not over the plain ; the shiggish 
bear has ceased to wind through the swamps ; the 
bloody panther does not spring upon his prey ; 
wolves have ceased to howl upon the hills ; birds 
cannot be seen in the branches of the trees ; graceful 
warriors guide no hunger their well-shaped canoes, 
and beautiful squaws loiter not upon the plain, nor 
pick the delicious berries. ISTow, vast fields of cotton, 
noisy steamers, huge rafts of himber, towns reared 
for business, disagreeable corporation laws, harassing 
courts of justice, mills, factories, and everything else 
that is calculated to destroy the beauty of a country 
and rob man of his quiet and native independence, 
present themselves to our view." 

While Bossu was at the Fort, advices were brought 
that the Emperor of Coweta — for the early writers 
distributed imperial and kingly honors on every 
hand amongst the petty forest patriarchs with won- 
derous profuseness — was about to honor the French 
with a visit. Bossu walked forth to meet this mighty 
potentate, and as he took him by the hand, the guard 
w^ho accompanied him discharged their muskets, and 
a salute was also fired from the fort, to the excessive 
gratification of the emperor, who, like many dis- 
tinguished men now living, found great glory in a 
noise and a bad smell. As he alighted from his horse 
and advanced with deliberate and majestic pace 



278 FEENCH CHIVALRY IN THE SOUTHWEST. 

toward the fort, the Europeans walking behind him, 
enjoyed an excellent opportunity of observing his 
costume, which consisted of a heavy plume of black 
feathers in his topknot, a scarlet uniform coat most 
gorgeously bedizened with tinsel lace, a white linen 
shirt modestly flowing from beneath it, and two bare 
copper-colored legs. They found some difficulty, 
according to Bossu, in preserving the gravity proper 
for the occasion; although they might possibly have 
been puzzled to establish the logical relation between 
true grandeur and a pair of breeches. 

Sitting down to a state feast prepared for him by 
D'Aubant, the husband of the fugitive princess, and 
then the successor of Montberaut in command of the 
post, the young emperor — a youth of eighteen — was 
much gravelled at the unaccustomed knife and fork, 
but a wise old chief who accompanied him as a kind of 
Mentor, cut the knot by coolly dismembering a turkey 
with his fingers, gravely remarking that " the Master 
of life made fingers before the making of forks." 

A savage who waited behind the emperor's chair, 
observing the Frenchmen sedulous in seasoning their 
boiled beef with mustard, asked Beaudin, an officer 
who had lived forty years amongst the Creeks, what 
it was that they relished so much ? Beaudin replied 
that the French were by no means covetous even of 
the best of their possessions, and to demonstrate the 
liberality he boasted, he handed the Indian bench- 



279 



man a generous spoonful of the fiery condiment with 
ostentatious gravity. The savage unhesitatingly swal- 
lowed it ; but found himself quite unable, with all his 
Indian fortitude, to hide the tingling agony. He 
made divers fearful grimaces, and extraordinary 
contortions of body, and uttered a number of whoops 
indicative of his feelings, all to the unbounded merri- 
ment of the company. But at last he imagined him- 
self poisoned, and the polite commandant was fain to 
appease his anger and his pain together, by the 
unfailing panacea of a good glass of brandy. 

On another of Bossu's expeditions through the 
woods, having gone quietly to sleep near the river's 
bank, rolled up in a corner of the tent-cloth, in his 
bear skin, and with a nice string of fish for breakfast 
stowed by his side, he was startlingly awakened to 
find himself rapidly propelled by some invisible 
power through the darkness, towards the river. He 
roared lustily for help, but bestirring himself smartly, 
only managed, before help could come, to free him- 
self and his bear skin, just in season to see his tent- 
cloth and his fish go under water in the jaws of an 
immense alligator. The horrible monster, smelling 
the fish, and not very particular what else he took, 
had carelessly seized the tent-cloth, and was trund- 
ling ofi" commander, tent, bed and all, along with his 
luncheon ; quite unintentionally, but with reprehen- 
sible carelessness. 



280 FJRENCH CHIVALKT IN THE SOUTHWEST. 

A Choctaw whom Bossu met, having been bap- 
tized, and happening to have small success in his 
hunting just afterwards, conceived that his baptism 
had been a charm, and that he was bewitched. So 
going to Father Lefevre, who had " converted " him, 
he indignantly told him that his " medicine " was 
good for nothing, for that since he had received it he 
could kill no deer, and he told him to take off the 
enchantment. The compliant Jesuit, sure that the 
baptism had safely ticketed the red man's soul for 
heaven, readily pretended to go through a reversal 
of the forms of the sacrament ; and the Indian, sure 
enough, shortly afterwards, killed a deer, to his great 
relief and satisfaction, and was never a wliit the 
worse Christian. 

The history of the French in the Southwest would 
be very incomplete without a sketch of the fortunes 
and influence of a family, who, for a quarter of a 
century, controlled the strong tribes of the Creeks, 
and their allies of the neighboring region, and by 
means of a mingled course of war and diplomacy, 
contrived to maintain the territory and independence 
of the tribes by balancing against each other the 
power of the Spaniards and of the United States. This 
is the family of McGillivray, the celebrated half-breed 
Creek chief; including beside himself, his father, 
Lachlan McGillivray, his sisters, Sophia and Jean- 
nette, and his brother-in-law, the roving and adven- 



ALEXANDER MCGILLIYBAT. 281 

tiirous Frenchman Le Clerc Milfort, not to mention 
the celebrated chief Weatherford, of the next genera- 
tion, the son of his half-sister Sehoy. 

Lachlan McGillivraj, the son of respectable Scotch 
parents, a youth of shrewd, roving and adventurous 
character, strong constitution and unfailing good 
temper and spirits, running away from home, had 
come to Charleston about the year 1735 ; and engag- 
ing in the service of an Indian trader, speedily com- 
menced business on his own account by exchanging a 
jack-knife which his employer gave him, with an 
Indian for some deer skins. From this insignificant 
beginning he rapidly developed an extensive and 
profitable business, and by skill, courage, and good- 
nature, and very probably also by means of some secret 
leanings towards the French, the ancient and faithful 
allies of the Scottish kingdom, his trading operations 
extended without interruption, even to the neighbor- 
hood of Fort Toulouse. Here he married a beautiful 
half-blood Indian girl, Sehoy Marchand, whose father, 
Captain Marchand, had been slain w^hile command- 
ing the fort, by his mutinous soldiers, in the famine in 
1722, and whose mother was a full-blooded Creek of 
the family of the Wind, tlie aristocracy of the nation, 
and her Indian name, Sehoy, a hereditary one in the 
family from time immemorial. Her Lachlan McGil- 
livray marries ; settles himself in a trading post at 
Little Tallase, and here, about 1745, is born Alex 



282 FRENCH CHIVALRY IN THE SOUTHWEST. 

ander McGillivray, their eldest child ; his character, 
as Indian legends say, having been prefigured by his 
mother's dreams of great piles of manuscripts, ink 
and paper, and great heaps of books. 

The trader, thus situated and connected, grows 
rich apace, and owns two valuable plantations and 
two stores. By the consent of his wife, to whom, 
according to Indian custom, the children belonged, 
he sends Alexander, now fourteen, to school at 
Ciiarleston for some little time, and then perches 
him upon a counting-house stool at Savannah. But 
haggling and barter-trade are disgusting to him. 
Account-books are not the books for him ; and 
neglecting his business, he was ever poring over 
histories and travels. By advice of friends, his father 
wisely accommodates this craving after knowledge, 
and placing him in charge of a clergyman of his own 
name — a Scotch Presbyterian it may be inferred — 
he falls with avidity to systematic study. In brief 
time the powerful and active intellect of the youth 
has mastered Latin and mastered Greek, and his 
attainments are fair in general literature ; and now, 
as he ripens into early and ardent manhood, as if the 
civilized part of his nature being in some measure 
nurtured, the Indian in him had awakened, and was 
calling for wild woods and savage life ; he leaves 
books and cities, mounts his horse, and hies back to 
the beautiful country of his people, the Creeks. 



ALEXANDER MOGILLIVRAT. 283 

In a good time lie arrives, for the Indians are 
vexed and perplexed by the lawless and brutal con- 
duct of the Georgian frontiersmen — a race whose con- 
duct tow^ards the red men seems from the beginning, 
to have held a bad pre-eminence amongst the infinite 
wrongs inflicted on them by the w^hites ; and already 
proud and confident in the precocious and powerful 
talents of the youth, they were looking with impa- 
tience to the time w^hen he should be of age to 
assume that control of the afi'airs of his race, to 
w^hich not only nature had ordained him, but his 
descent from the noble family of the Wind gave him 
a legitimate title, according to the rude Indian law 
of descents. With the easy confidence of born great- 
ness, he takes his place ; and so clear and strong is 
his immediate exhibition of administrative talent, 
that the British authorities, then occupying Florida, 
and seeking to secure in their interest the influence 
of the young Creek chief, compliment him with the 
rank and pay of a colonel in His Britannic Majesty's 
service. Bound to them by this early recognition 
and testimony of his value, as well as through his 
father, a staunch royalist, and actuated moreover by 
the continual and gratuitous injuries and insults put 
upon his nation by the coarse and lawless American 
backwoodsmen, he remains all his life fiiitlifnlly 
attached to the English interest as against the United 
States. 



284: FEENOH CHIVALEY IN THE SOUTHWEST. 

McGillivray — tliis is about 1776 — is holding a 
grand council of the Creek nation, at the great town 
of Coweta on the Cbattahoochie. While the business 
of the assembly is in progress, there is introduced to 
him a certain young Frenchman, handsome, viva- 
cious, accomplished, keenly intelligent. Himself 
French by the quarter blood, and in these other points i 
so like, it is not singular that McGillivray was : 
pleased with this new acquaintance ; and Le Clerc 
Milfort — for this was he — on his part, with the singu-, 
lar esjDecial proclivity towards savage life so marked 
in the French, enchanted with the beauty of the 
country, the plenteous hospitality and ease of the 
Indian life, the wide field for exciting adventure, the 
absolute freedom of the place and the time, and quite 
fascinated, moreover, by the splendor of the chief- 
tain's intellect, was not long in accepting an invita- 
tion to become a permanent inmate of McGillivray's 
family ; and during a period of twenty years these 
two remarkable men, in conjunction, managed in 
peace and war, the government of the Creeks. 
McGillivray was no coward, and together with Col. 
Tait, a British agent, had in person headed more 
than one expedition against the Whigs of Georgia, 
during the Revolutionary War. But his slender 
frame and weak health, his di^^lomatic and intellectual 
turn of mind, fitted him rather for the council and the 
cabinet, tban for the field ; while Milfort, daring and 



FOREST DIPLOMACY. 285 

enthusiastic, of iron constitution and restless activity, 
a trained soldier, and skillful partisan, was the very 
man to lead the Indians in their desultory warfare 
with the serai-civilized borderers. So he marries the 
beautiful sister of the chieftain, and is appointed 
Tustenuggee, or grand war-chief of the nation. 

During the Revolutionary War, the Creeks unceas- 
ingly harass the Georgian frontier, Milfort taking 
the field as their leader, while McGillivray, remaining 
at home, oversees enlistments and manages refrac- 
tory chieftains ; his enmity against the Georgians yet 
further inflamed by the misfortunes of his father, who 
is forced at the evacuation of Savannah by the Brit- 
ish to flee with them, and who, although he secured 
a large property to carry with him, lost all his real 
estate ; which, to the value of more than a hundred 
thousand dollars, was summarily confiscated by 
the provincials; an injury which the chief, who 
amidst all his patriotism and politics had always a 
keen eye to his personal profit and aggrandizement, 
neither forgot nor foro^ave. 

But the Spaniards, meanwhile, have re-conquered 
Florida from England. At Pensacola resides William 
Panton, like McGillivray's father a Scotchman, a 
wealthy and extensive Indian trader, and no small 
politician. He has bartered the use of his powerful 
influence amongst the Indian tribes south of the Ten- 
nessee River, with the Spanish government, for 



286 FRENCH CHIYALKY IN THE SOUTHWEST. 

certain special privileges ; and is now, as chief 
partner of the great firm of Panton, Leslie & Co., 
conducting a business, whose out-stations are all over 
Florida, from the St. Mary's to the Chickasaw bluffs, \ 
whose central depot at Pensacola usually contains fifty 
thousand dollars' worth of goods, and employs fifteen 
clerks, and for whose carrying trade fifteen schooners, 
all owned by the firm, were busy up and down the 
coast. 

McGillivray is dropped by the British, who, beaten . 
out of the country, have no further use for him. Pan- 
ton, well aware of his influence and appreciating his 
talents, seeks to engage him in the interest of Spain ; 
with the design of securing to his Spanish allies a valu- 
able auxiliary, and to himself McGillivray's assist- 
ance in his trade, which ends were to be accomplished 
by demonstrating the value of the Spanish alliance to 
his nation, and moreover, by the direct personal 
advancement of the chieftain himself. Panton brings 
him to Pensacola ; and on behalf of the Creek and 
Seminole nations he engages that the influence of 
Spain shall be paramount in their territories, and 
that Spain shall have all their trade ; and for himself 
he receives the appointment of commissary in the 
Spanish service, with the rank and pay of a colonel. 

For choosing the Spanish alliance, McGillivray's 
reasons, aside from his private aggrandizement, were 
amply sufiScient. His primary purpose — the central 



ALEXANDER MCGILLIVRAT. 287 

pui-pose of his life — was the independence and pros- 
perity of his own people. While the Americans had 
exiled his father, confiscated his estates, threatened 
death to himself and extermination to his tribe, and 
had already, under the transparent pretence of an il- 
legal and unratified treaty, appropriated a large and 
valuable portion of the Creek territory, known as 
the Oconee lands, the Spaniards wanted no land, but 
only trade, and they offered commercial advantages 
and personal honor. 

Henceforward McGillivray appears almost solely 
as a diplomatist. The provincial Congress had 
appointed commissioners to treat with the southern 
Indians, who sent to summon the chief to meet them 
and enter into a treaty. He answered complaisantly 
and politely, with apparent acquiescence, but avoided 
meeting them. They departed in disappointment ; 
and contrary to their wishes, the Georgian commis- 
sioners who had accompanied them, protesting against 
their intended plans, proceeded alone to conclude a 
treaty with the chiefs of only two towns, who with 
sixty warriors were the only Indians present ; and the 
State legislature made a county out of some of the 
land thus pretended to be ceded, which lasted only 
two weeks, the settlers being driven out by the Indian 
lords of the soil. 

Congress next appointed a superintendent for the 
Creeks, Dr. James White, who wrote to McGillivray 



288 FRENCH CHIYALKY IN THE SOUTHWEST. 

from Cusseta, announcing the fact. The chief replied 
in a long and involved epistle, complaining of the 
Georgian grievances, anticipating redi-ess, and 
appointing time and place for an interview. They 
met in April, 1Y87, and White forthwith demanded 
the acknowledgment of the boundary claimed by the 
Georgians. McGillivray adroitly made a counter- 
proposition, that the United States ought first to estab- 
lish a government under federal authority south of 
the Alabama ; and promising that if they should, 
he would then ratify the line required, and giving 
the checkmated superintendent until the first of 
August to consider on it, he departed. 

All this time the extensive trade of the Creeks was 
shut to the United States, and the Indians, incensed 
beyond measure at the greedy seizure of the Oconee 
lands, incessantly depredated upon the border, to the 
great wrath and injury of the Georgian squatters, 
who would fain have procured the invasion of the 
Creeks by a national army. 

But Congress is reluctant to enter into another 
war ; and a third time sends other commissioners to 
negotiate with McGillivray. The powerful and fear- 
less chieftain now absolutely refuses to treat unless 
the Georgians shall first be removed from the Oconee 
lands, which the commissioners cannot do, and again 
they go bootless home ; while McGillivray, personally 
interested in Panton's extensive trade, valued, flat- 



TOKEST DIPLOMACY. . 289 

tered, and amply supplied by the Spanish government, 
implicitly obeyed by the Creeks and by many of the 
Choctaws, Cherokees and Seminoles, and even suppli- 
cated to by the American Congress, is quite able to 
demand his own terms ; and the indefatigable Tus- 
tenuggee and his warriors still unmercifully vex and 
devastate the disputed border. 

The proud, bold and wary " Alabama Talleyrand" 
as Pickett the historian calls him, scornfully refused 
to trust the pledge of personal honor, upon which 
commissioners from Georgia next invited him to 
meet them ; evaded repeated like attempts by Gover- 
nor Pinckney of South Carolina ; and kept the com- 
missioners of the federal government long waiting and 
urging him to a meeting, on his frontier. 

McGillivray at length agreed to meet them ; and 
knowing well what use to make of the Spanish fears 
that he might come to an accommodation with them, 
and ever influenced primarily by the interests of his 
nation, he wrote to Panton an ambiguous letter con- 
taining the following triumphant and powerful pass- 
age: 

" In order to accommodate us, the commissioners are complaisant 
enough to postpone it (the meeting) till the 15th of next month, and 
one of them, the late Chief Justice Osborne, remains all the time at 
Rock Landing. * * * In this do you not see my cause of tri- 
umph, in bringing these conquerors of the Old, and masters of the 
New World, as they call themselves, to bend and supplicate for peace, 

13 



290 FRENCH CHIVALRY IN THE SOUTHWEST. 

at the feet of a people whom, shortly before, they despised and 
marked out for destruction?" 

Leaving Panton and the Spanish authorities in 
considerable pain lest he should in some way put 
himself into the hands of the Americans, McGilliv- 
raj, with two thousand warriors, met the American 
authorities at Rock Landing on the Oconee ; and with 
his usual polite courtesy, so encouraged the commis- 
sioners that they considered it safe to explain the 
treaty they desired, which, as usual, stipulated that 
the boundary required by Georgia should be acknow- 
ledged ; and for other concessions from the Indians. 
McGillivray, after the form of consulting with his 
chiefs, astounded the commissioners next morning by 
coolly refusing their terms as unjust ; and in spite of 
their efforts he broke up his encampment and depart- 
ed, writing them a curt letter of explanation, which 
ended as follows : 

" We sincerely desire a peace, but cannot sacrifice much to obtain 
it. As for a statement of our disputes, the honorable Congress has 
long since been in possession of it, and has declared that they will 
decide on them, on the principles of justice and humanity. 'Tisthat 
we expect." 

The commissioners had to return in dissatisfaction. 
President Washington, unwilling to undertake a war, 
whose expense he computed at fifteen millions, re- 
solved to attempt a personal interview with McGill- 



TREATY AT NEW YORK. 291 

ivraj; and Col. Mariniis Willet, dispatched on a 
secret agency to negotiate for his journey to New 
York, and succeeding, returned with him overland, 
the distinguished chief being everywhere received 
and treated with the utmost attention and honor. 

The Spanish governor, in great alarm, sent an agent 
to 'New York to embarrass their proceedings, who 
however was so closely watched as to be unable to 
do any harm. A treaty was at last concluded, Au- 
gust 1790, by which McGillivray recognized the 
boundary line claimed by the Georgians, and stipu- 
lated to substitute for his existing relations with Spain, 
similar ones with the United States, for which an 
annual payment of fifteen hundred dollars was to be 
made to the nation, and their territory guaran- 
teed to them. There was, however, a secret treaty 
signed by Washington, Knox, McGillivray and the 
chiefs with him, providing for salaries and medals to 
the chiefs of the negotiating tribes ; and for the half- 
breed ruler himself, the appointments of United States 
agent, and brigadier-general, with twelve hundred 
dollars a year. 

He returns with half a year's pay in advance. The 
terms of the treaty being published, for the first time 
McGillivray begins to lose the confidence at once of his 
tribe, of the Spaniards, and of Panton. A freebooting 
adventurer, named Bowles, a man of many strange 
experiences, in the English interest, intrigues within 



292 FRENCH CHIVALRY IN THE SOUTHWEST. 

the nation against the chief, who, however, journeyl 
about and negotiates awhile, first procures Eowles 
to be sent to Madi-id in irons and then receives from 
his Catholic Majesty the appointment of superinten- 
dent-general of the Creeks, with an annual salary of 
two thousand dollars, soon increased to thirty-five: 
hundred. 

Thus supported by the two powerful nations whom| 
he played against each other, and even firmer than 
ever in his own hereditary authority, he spent a year 
or two in his natural atmosphere of diplomacy and 
intrigue, bamboozling the American authorities with 
multiplied excuses for delaying to execute the treaty 
of Kew York, and still privately maintaining his 
close relations with the Spaniards ; seemingly with 
perfect ease, avoiding to commit himself into the 
hands of either, and skillfully and wisely support- 
ing his home administration. He died in February, 
1793, of a complication of disorders ; probably 
chiefly of an inflammation of the lungs, and of gout 
in the stomach. 

" General McGillivray," says Pickett, " was six feet 
high, spare made, and remarkably erect in person 
and carriage. His eyes were large, dark, and piercing. 
His forehead was so peculiarly shaped that the old 
Indian countrymen often spoke of it; it commenced 
expanding at his eyes, and widened considerably at 
the top of his head ; it was a bold and lofty forehead. 



CHARACTER OF MCGILLITRAY. 293 

His fingers were long and tapering, and he wielded 
a pen with the greatest rapidity. His face was hand- 
some, and indicative of quick thought and much saga- 
city. Unless interested in conversation, he was dis- 
posed to be taciturn ; but even then was polite and 
resi^ectful." 

For the control of men, and the conduct of politi- 
cal intrigues, McGillivray was probably the greatest 
man ever born upon this continent. He was, as seems 
to have been necessary to diplomatic success, pretty 
thoroughly unscrupulous as to the means he used ; 
and, indeed, was in his public character a false and 
crafty man ; but such characteristics are the less to 
be wondered at in one of Indian blood, whose life was 
spent in maintaining a small and feeble nation amid 
the encroachments, intrigues, and attacks of others 
immeasurably stronger. As an individual, he was 
honorable, courteous, hospitable, and generous even 
to chivalry. _At his residence at Little Tallase and 
the'Hickory Ground, he was accustomed nobly to 
entertain all reputable strangers and visitors of pub- 
lic character. 

Tliree wretches, an Indian, a white renegade, and 
a negro having waylaid and slain a party of his 
guests, he sent promptly in pursuit, and although, 
two of tTiem succeeded in escaping, he caused the 
third to be carried to the place of his guilt, and 
there hung. A poor Choctaw Indian being sick, 



294 FRENCH CHIVALRY m THE SOUTHWEST. 

apprehended that the native doctors had given 
him over. In this case the gentlemen of the savage 
faculty were accustomed to verify their diagnoses by 
recommending that the patient be forthwith put out 
of his pain, whereupon two of the nearest relatives, 
in full reliance upon their professional skill, jumped 
upon him and strangled him out of hand. Crawling 
desperately off to escape this prescription, while the 
consultation was progressing before his door, the poor 
wretch managed to reach the Creek nation, was 
kindly received by McGillivray, and by him caused 
to be cured. He returned home, but arrived only 
in time for the final ceremonies of dancing round his 
empty death-scaffold, and burning it, whereupon they 
all ran away, one man only, cornered in his house, 
insisting that he was a ghost, and exhorting him to 
hurry back to the land of spirits. Fearing that he 
should really be sent thither, he returned to the 
Creeks and spent the rest of his life under their pro- 
tection. 

A party of unhappy fugitives from amongst the 
insurgents of 1781, in the ISTatchez district, arrived, 
all haggard with their desperate forest journey, at 
the Hickory Ground. In imminent danger from the 
warriors, who believed them whigs, the Creeks being 
then in arms for the royal cause, they were only 
saved by the presence of mind of McGillivray's 
negro body-servant, Paro, who, his master being 



WILLIAM A. BOWLES. 

absent, arrived at the moment, and would have unde- 
ceived the Indians, but in vain ; until one warrior 
cried out, " If you tell the truth, make the paper 
talk." Taking the hint, Paro asked the travellers 
for their journal. They had none. Had they any 
written documents ? One of them had by chance an 
old letter in his pocket ; from which, by Paro's direc- 
tion he proceeded slowly and gravely to pretend 
to read a complete history of their flight from ISTatch- 
ez ; upon which the Indians, well knowing what 
conduct would meet the wishes of their great 
chieftain, gave up their evil purposes, received and 
refreshed the weary wanderers, and set them forward 
again, rested and recruited, on their journey to the 
eastward. 

Leclerc Milfort, a year or two after McGillivray's 
death, returned to France, where he published an 
account of his life among the Creeks. And it was 
not long before the common ruin of the Indian tribes, 
these two able leaders being gone, began to come 
upon the Creeks, until they were utterly overcome, 
and scattered away from their native seats. 

The name of William Augustus Bowles was men- 
tioned above. Although his life and adventures are 
not strictly within the line of this narrative, his cha- 
racter was so extraordinary and his experiences so 
romantic as to justify the brief digression necessary 
to sketch them. 



296 FEENCH CHIVALET IN THE SOUTHWEST. 

Born in Maryland in 1T62, Bowles, a precocious, 
unruly and daring boy, at the age of fourteen en- 
listed as a private in the British army, served a year 
against his countrymen, became an ensign, accom- 
panied his regiment to Jamaica, and thence to 
Pensacola. Here he is disr anted for insubordina- 
tion; and thoroughly disgusted with military dis- 
cipline, and a wild, restless, and fearless rover by 
nature, he contemptuously strips off his uniform, 
flings it into the sea, and flees northward into the 
forest with some Creeks. Living upon the Tallapoosa 
river for several years, he thoroughly acquires the 
Indian language ; and marrying the daughter of a 
chief, he rises to considerable influence amongst the 
savages, and the white traders and vagabonds of the 
region. Indeed, few men have ever possessed more 
completely the qualifications of a commander of 
savages, thieves, and pirates ; for he had a noble and 
commanding person, an insinuating and prepossess- 
ing address, exceedingly handsome and expressive 
features, a quick, comprehensive, versatile and power- 
ful intellect, the most daring personal courage, and 
at the same time a heart without feeling, principle, 
or honor — utterly abandoned and debased. 

At the head of a party of Creeks, he assists Gene- 
ral Campbell in his stubborn defence of Pensacola 
against Governor Galvez in 1Y81 ; accompanies the 
dislodged garrison to 'New York; falling readily 



ESTABLISHES A TRADING POST. 297 

again into the habitudes of civilized life, yet gravit- 
ating to the loosest, he joins a company of come- 
dians, goes with them to 'New Providence, the capi- 
tal of the Bahamas, and here supports himself 
successfully -by acting, and by painting portraits ; 
for in this elegant pursuit also he was fitted to 
become even a master : Lord Dunmore, having a quar- 
rel with the great Indian trading-house of Panton, 
Leslie & Co., which had become closely leagued, as 
has already been stated, with the Spanish authorities 
in Florida, and with McGillivray, now selected 
Bowles to establish a trading-house on the Chatta- 
hoochie for the purpose of injuring the business of 
the obnoxious firm. Busily bestirring himself in this 
enterprise, known already as a powerful and danger- 
ous intriguer, McGillivray, whom Bowles hated and 
despised, and whose interests were endangered, sends 
word to him by Milfort that if he does not leave 
the nation in twenty-four hours his ears will be taken 
off. Knowing that McGillivray could fulfill the threat, 
and probably considering that his head would most 
likely accompany his ears, he quickly flees back to 
Kew Providence, and along with a delegation of 
Creeks, Seminoles, and Cherokees, is sent to England, 
professedly to assist in soliciting government aid to 
the tribes in repelling the aggressions of the Ameri- 
cans. Here he is well received, enriched with many 
presents, and returning to ISTew Providence, embarks 

13* 



298 FRENCH CHIVALEY HT THE SOUTHWEST. 

in a schooner which he teaches his Indians to help 
him navigate, and cruises np and down the Gulf 
against Panton's commerce. He takes his vessels, 
runs them up obscure bayous, and around the plun- 
dered goods he and his savage crew, along with aban- 
doned whites, make the lonely woods and swamps 
resound with the noise of their mad debauchery. 
Lavishly distributing his spoils amongst the Indians, 
his influence over them grows apace ; and impudently 
entering the Creek nation, he openly excites opposi- 
tion to McGillivray, who had just returned from New 
York, and against whom there was already some dis- 
satisfaction on account of the treaty then made. 
McGillivray departs to E"ew Orleans ; Bowles and 
his partisans says he will never dare show his face 
upon the Coosa again. But he comes back, never- 
theless; and the unlucky Bowles, whose schemes, 
like all those of unbounded villains, seeming to lack 
any coherence or power, and to possess some inherent 
fatality of ill success, being seized by his contrivance 
is sent in chains to the Spanish governor at ISTew 
Orleans, and thence to Madrid. Here he is closely 
imprisoned, and is long beset with offers of high 
rank and large pay, if he will take service with Spain 
and use in her behalf his Indian influence. But, 
probably from his intense hatred towards McGilliv- 
ray, he obstinately refused. The Spaniards, count- 
ing upon his reputation as a debauchee, change their 



IMPRISONED BY THE SPANISH. 299 

tactics, and while keeping him in safe confinement, 
furnish him splendid apartments, many servants, and 
all manner of luxurious living. He eats, drinks, and, 
is merry, but still refuses. Then they threaten him 
with transportation to the pestilent dungeons of Man- 
illa ; and the obstinate and reckless deviltry of the 
man still holding out, they send him there in irons, 
and there he remains three or four years, until in 
1Y97, he is ordered back to Spain. Hearing on the 
voyage that Spain and England are at war, he escapes 
at Ascension Island, and by way of Sierra Leone 
reaches England ; is welcomed by Mr. Pitt and the 
Duke of Portland, again munificently provided with 
the resources due to so serviceable a villain, and 
again dispatched in an armed schooner detailed for 
that service, to cruise again against Panton in the 
Gulf. Here, wrecked near the mouth of the Apal- 
achicola, he is discovered by EUicott, American com- 
missioner to run the southern boundary line of 
Alabama and Mississippi ; and obtaining provisions 
from that officer, Bowles in return supplies him many 
valuable charts and directions for the navigation of 
the intricate waters around the peninsula of Florida. 
In his conversations with Ellicott the freebooter 
repeatedly avows the most bitter enmity to the 
Americans and to Spain ; and his intention to main- 
tain an unending warfare upon the Florida ports of 
the latter power, with the Creek warriors ; whom he 



300 FKENCH CHI V ALKY IK THE SOUTHWEST. 

called ." his people " as if lie were tlie chief of the 
tribe. Shortly penetrating again into the Creek 
nation, he again began to intrigue for the breaking 
up of the good understanding which was at last 
beginning to be established between the savages and 
the United States, stirred up all the elements of dis- 
cord and unquiet, and even levied open war upon his 
enemies, taking the fort at St. Mark's and plundering 
Panton's store there. 

But the end of his world-wide rovings and multi- 
plied and outrageous crimes approached. A large 
reward being secretly offered for his capture, he was 
suddenly seized in 1803, at a great Indian feast got 
up for the purpose, pinioned, and sent down the Tom- 
bigbee under guard of a canoe's crew of warriors. 
His guard falling asleep in the night, the ready 
prisoner gnawed apart his rope fetters, crept to the 
canoe, paddled across the river, and fled away into 
the canebrake. But by unaccountable oversight 
omitting to set the canoe adrift, his captors, awaking 
early, spied it on the other side, swam the river, fol- 
lowed in his trail, seized him once more before noon, 
and carried him to Mobile. Thence he was sent to 
Havana, and after some years, ended in the dungeons 
of the Moro, a life of as romantic, varied, and des- 
perate adventure ; of as mingled and incongruous 
genius, fortitude, boldness, dexterity, debauchery, 
and crime, as perhaps ever fell to the lot of man. 



THE NAPOLEONIST REFUGEES. 301 

Long after the end of the career of McGillivray 
and Milfort, when the territory of Alabama had been 
organized, and when the Indian title to large portions 
of their hereditary lands had been extinguished, still 
another band of Frenchmen made a persevering, 
though ill-conducted and abortive effort to establish 
themselves upon those fertile regions. 

Considerable numbers of Napoleonist refugees, 
driven from France after the imprisonment of the 
great Emperor at St. Helena, had gathered to Phila- 
delphia, among whom were men of ability and emi- 
nence, and many lovely and accomplished women. 
Count Lefevre Desnouettes had been a lieutenant- 
general of cavalry under Bonaparte ; had been 
present at the terrific siege of Saragossa; and 
had accompanied his master in the frightful retreat 
from Moscow. Handsome, graceful, and active, he 
was the most splendid horseman of his time. ISTapo- 
leon was much attached to him, gave him many gifts, 
and procured for him to wife the sister of the 
wealthy banker Lafitte. At Fontainebleau, it was Des- 
nouettes whom IS'apoleon embraced for all the officers 
in testimony of the affection and sorrow with which 
he parted from them on his way to his exile at Elba. 

Colonel iJTicolas Raoul, another of ^NTapoleon's 
veterans, had accompanied his master to Elba ; and 
when he escaped thence, had commanded the little 
advanced guard of the slender army with which the 



302 FRENCH CHIVALRY IN THE SOrTHWEST. 

emperor set out upon the famous triumphant pro- 
gress from Cannes to Paris. Eaoul was a large and 
noble-looking man, irascible and obstinate, and a 
fearless and impetuous soldier. His wife, a beauti- 
ful Neapolitan, marchioness of Sinibaldi, had .been a 
lady of honor at the court of Murat's wife, Queen 
Caroline of I^aples. 

Marshal Grouchy, a middle-sized and unmilitary 
looking man, although also in Philadelphia, was un- 
popular with the refugees, who imputed to him the 
loss of the field of Waterloo, on which subject he 
waged a newspaper war with them ; and for which, 
or other reasons, he did not himself come to Ala- 
bama, although one of his sons, a captain in the 
French army, afterwards did. 

General Count Bertrand Clausel, who had served 
with success throughout Bonaparte's campaigns ; 
Henry L'AUemand, lieutenant-general of artillery of 
the imperial guard, who married a niece of Stephen 
Girard; his brother Charles; Col. J. J. Cluis, for- 
merly aid to Lefebvre, Marshal Duke of Eovigo, 
secretary to the same when afterwards chief of the 
police of Paris, and who at one time had had charge 
of E'apoleon's royal prisoner, Ferdinand the Seventh 
of Spain; were also among the refugee French at 
Philadelphia. 

Several men of civil or literary reputations were 
also there at the same time; among whom were 



" THE VINE AND OLIVE COMPANY." 803 

Peniers, who, as a member of the JSTational Assembly, 
had voted for the death of Lewis the Sixteenth; 
Lackanal, who had done the like, and who had after- 
wards been at the head of the Department of Public 
Instruction under Napoleon; Simon Chaudron, whose 
residence at Philadelphia was a well-known resort for 
the polite and witty, whose literary powers and attain- 
ments were great, and who had acquired no incon- 
siderable reputation as editor, poet, writer and 
speaker ; and others. 

These gentlemen deputed Nicholas S. Parmentier 
to obtain from Congress a grant of territory some- 
where upon the public domain, upon which they 
intended to establish a colony, which was done March 
4th, 1817, by the votes of that body, authorizing them 
to purchase four townships, at two dollars an acre, on 
a credit of fourteen years ; the only other condition 
being that they should introduce and practise the cul- 
tivation of the vine and the olive ; a stipulation from 
which their association was often named "The Yine 
and Olive Company." 

After some exploration and correspondence, it was 
determined to settle near the junction of the Black 
Warrior and Tombigbee Pivers; and the company, 
of three hundred and forty grantees, each entitled to 
a share of from eighty to four hundred and eighty 
acres of land, a country lot and a town lot, set sail for 
Mobile in the schooner McDonough. After a very 



304: FRENCH CHIVALRY IN THE SOUTHWEST. 

narrow escape from shipwreck upon Mobile Point, 
the J reached the city; and having been hospitably 
received and aided in many ways, both there and by 
the landed gentlemen in the vicinity, they at last 
established themselves upon the spot selected, near 
the White Bluff on the Tombigbee. Erecting scat- 
tered cabins here and there amongst the thick forest 
of trees and of cane which covered the site of their 
estate, or in the prairie openings which dotted it, 
they cleared little patches of ground, and put in tem- 
porary crops for immediate provision, until some defi- 
nite location and partition should be made. After a 
time the grant was surveyed and laid off into town- 
ships and sections ; and a town was laid out and 
named Demopolis — ^The City of the People. 

Complicated and grievous disasters, however, be- 
sieged them. High bred and delicate, unused either 
to any forms of business, or to the stern hand to hand 
struggle which alone wrests bread from savage 
nature, utterly ignorant of any manual art, and even 
of the most ordinary processes of agriculture, espe- 
cially where so stubborn a forest was first to be con- 
quered, and moreover, unacquainted either with the 
language, the laws or the customs of the people 
around them, it would have been difficult to select 
from the nations of the earth a company less fit for 
the rugged task they had undertaken. 

Three distinct and successive times, by the incredi- 



ILL SUCCESS OF THE ADVENTURE. 305 

ble errors or folly of their agents, were they foiced to 
give up the tracts which they had begun to improve, 
and to select others. They were thus driven back 
from their first eligible location on the river front, 
into waterless and inaccessible lots within the forest. 
Their city of Demopolis was found to be without the 
limits of their claim, and was bought from the United 
States over their heads by a crew of speculators, at 
fifty-two dollars an acre. The sharking land-thieves 
of the border coolly "squatted" within their grants, 
and insultingly informed them that they should main- 
tain themselves there at all risks. Although some 
suits were decided against these .swindlers, yet the 
French, vexed and wearied with legal expenses and 
delays, often allowed the interlopers to remain for 
some small consideration. Without vehicles, cattle, 
slaves or servants, the German redemptioners whom 
Desnouettes imported, proving idle, faithless and use- 
less, they wasted enormous amounts of labor and 
money to raise inadequate crops. Desnouettes him- 
self, a rich man, the wealthiest of them all, expended 
twenty-five thousand dollars in opening and culti- 
vating his own farm. Their ignorance of agriculture, 
and still more the unfitness of the land and of the 
climate, caused the total failure of their persevering 
attempts to cultivate the vine and the olive, accord- 
ing to the terms of their grant. The grapes, which 
after many unsuccessful attempts, they succeeded in 



306 FKENCH CHIVALRY IN THE SOUTHWEST. 

ripening, matured under the vivid lieat of the Ala- 
bama sun, in the midst of the summer, and the must 
soured into vinegar before it had time to ferment 
into wine. The frosts of the winter, on the other 
hand, yearly cut down the olive shoots to the ground, 
and though they sprouted again in the spring, it was 
to meet the same fate. 

Although all their schemes for establishing a settled 
community were abortive, from the first, and in 
despite of multiplied mortifications and griefs, of 
solitude, savages, land-thieves, vain labor, imminent 
poverty, venomous insects, sickly atmosphere, and 
exhausting fevers, the indomitable French gaiety and 
determined lightness of heart procured for them many 
happy hours. They met at each other's houses, to 
talk of the past, to enjoy literary conversation and 
female society, music, and dancing, and the occasion- 
al festive gifts of friends ; and in whatever distress, 
seem never once to have abated any "jot of heart or 
hope." At one of these evening re-unions General 
Desnouettes, who had commanded the cavalry before 
Saragossa, unexpectedly met one who had been a 
leader within the desperately defended town. This 
was General Rico, a Spaniard ; a man of noble pres- 
ence, of great energy and decision, an opponent to 
the last, of ITapoleon's invasion of Spain, now 
exiled from his country as a constitutionalist by Fer- 
dinand the Seventh. Settling in the colony, he 



DISPERSION OF THE SETTLERS. 307 

became almost the only successful farmer within its 
limits. 

At last the prospects of the little community grew 
definitely hopeless ; and its extinction was unavoid- 
able. Many of the settlers had sold out to American 
proprietors, who speedily brought the rich soil into 
high condition, and made valuable crops ; while tlie 
foreign proprietors, thus rooted out, were scattered 
away in many directions. Madame Desnouettes, after 
an unsuccessful attempt to join her husband in Ala- 
bama, at last succeeded in obtaining for him permis- 
sion from the French government to return to France ; 
but the veteran, embarking on the ill-fated packet 
Albion, was lost with many more, in that vessel, on 
old Kinsale Head, upon the Irish coast, and before the 
eyes of a great crowd of people, unable to afford any 
assistance. Kaoul established himself as a ferry- 
man, at French Creek, three miles from Demo- 
polis ; where his striking figure, foreign features 
and soldier-like air, excited the wonder of many 
travellers. He afterwards went to Mexico, his faith- 
ful wife accompanyiug him ; where he fought 
bravely in the revolution of that year ; and at last 
returning to France he was before long again an ofla- 
cer in the French army. Count Clausel did not settle 
at Demopolis, but remaining near Mobile, he raised 
vegetables and sold them himself in the market. 
He returned to France in 1825 ; and became, under 



308 FKENCH CHIYAI.ET m THE SOUTHWEST. 

Louis Philippe, a marshal of France, and governor 
of Algeria. The Spanish General Rico, returning to 
Spain, was for a time a member of the Cortes under 
the constitution, was again exiled, lied to England, and 
was once more called to assist in governing his country. 

Some few of the settlers passed the- remaindel' of 
their lives in Alabama, where their descendants 
yet live in good repute; but the colony, with these 
scattering exceptions, has left no trace, except the 
name Demopolis, Areola, the name of another town, 
and Marengo, the name given in compliment to 
a county in which part of their grant was situated. 

The w^hole history of the French power in the 
Southwestern United States, and indeed, the fate of 
their whole vast, but abortive scheme of empire, on 
the l^orth American continent, from the icebound 
shores of Hudson's Bay and Labrador, Cape Breton, 
and the Gulf of St. Lawrence, to the swamps of the 
Mississippi Delta, and the far distant sands of Gal- 
veston, twice unsuccessfully settled by the Frencli, 
furnishes a clear and decided testimony of the superior 
inherent vitality and vivid diffusive power which, 
whether they reside in the physical conformation, 
the mental and moral character, or the political and 
religious constitutions of the race, have ever enabled 
the Anglo Saxons to seize, to hold, to consolidate and 
to maintain nation after nation, upon territory after 
territory, in every quarter of the world, with a sue- 



ANGLO-SAXON SUPREMACY. 309 

cess compared with which the enterprises of the Gallic 
and other races have been either desultory or tran- 
sient, or at the very best, have only attained to a 
sickly, convulsive, unprofitable, and unhappy exist- 
ence. The feudal system contains nothing expansive 
or progressive. Whatever may have been its adapta- 
tion to the Europe of the Dark Ages, it had none to 
the settlers of a wild, free, forest country. Its doom 
was already foreshadowed at home ; and it was, of 
course, that a transplanted shoot from the decaying 
stock should fail to grow into a strong and living 
tree. French chivalry yielded, after a struggle hope- 
less from the beginning, to the resistless spread of Eng- 
lish constitutionalism ; and the empire which Louis the 
Fourteenth, the greatest monarch of his time, Crozat, 
Law, and the. company — the best of the merchants 
of the time — strove in vain tofound, has grown up by 
spontaneous increase, under the benign influences of 
free, civilized Christian republicanism. 



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